


How to Throw a Curve Ball I thru V (1/2)

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-12-15
Updated: 2000-12-15
Packaged: 2018-11-21 01:16:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 46,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11346948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived atThe Basement, which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address onThe Basement's collection profile.





	How to Throw a Curve Ball I thru V (1/2)

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

How to Throw a Curve Ball by Courtney Gray

HOW TO THROW A CURVE BALL  
by Courtney Gray  


* * *

"Of all men's miseries the bitterest is this, to know so much and to have control over nothing."--Herodotus.

*******

He should've kept the gun. It was a nice Sig Sauer, handled well, and he liked the model better than the S&W he was carrying. Stupid. Talk about the Grand Gesture. Well, at least Mulder hadn't shot him. Funny, he hadn't really considered the possibility at the time. He should have. He glanced up at the darkened windows. Maybe he should've played it differently all the way around.

The wind was picking up again, cold and stinging, reminding Krycek of where he was and where he needed to be.

He struggled with the buttons on his leather jacket. Damn it. His hand was still shaking. He couldn't feel the edge of his thumb. Still numb from the handcuff. At least it wasn't a zipper. It was even worse trying to clip the ends together with just one hand. //That's it, that's good, think about the details. Life goes on. Maybe not for very long, but just worry about 'now' and the fucking button.// He managed one and then another and looked around. The brown brick buildings seemed darker and uglier in the cloud-thick night. The streetlamps threw pools of weak yellow light here and there. He avoided them and walked deeper into the shadows.

Back in the old neighborhood again. Well, not his neighborhood, but he knew it well enough all the same. He could hear a dog barking somewhere, and farther off, a siren wailing. A fire truck maybe, or an ambulance. Yeah, help is on the way. To the rescue. Save the day. Fight or die. Resist or serve.

Krycek started walking faster.

He walked for block after block until he came to an area with a few stores, all of them closed. A cafe was still open, though, well lit and cheery, with a handful of people sitting at small tables by plant-strewn windows. He crossed the street, away from it. At the end of the next block there was a bar, the neighborhood hangout probably, worn-looking. The only neon was a square sign in the dark-tinted window with the words, Jack's Taps.

He had to make a call and he knew he needed a drink, so he went inside.

*******

His legs felt stiff. Man, how long had he been sitting on the floor? The gun still dangled in his hand, heavy and warm. His fingers were tingling. Losing sensation. Gee, that would be nice. Blinking, Mulder started to laugh, but couldn't quite manage it.

So, fate existed after all, and she threw a mean curve ball.

He struggled to his feet with a groan and slowly put the gun back in its holster. The apartment was dark, the only light from the transom above the door. He walked to it, the sound of it slamming and the fading footsteps, still crystal in his mind. He glanced into the shadows of the room and wondered how Krycek managed to get in; he seemed to have a knack for that, for sneaking into all the dark corners when you least expected him.

Mulder reached for the lightswitch and changed his mind, turning on the lamp near the door instead. He didn't want too much illumination at the moment. It would just hurt his eyes. Yeah, right.

So now what? He was still wearing his coat, he realized. Didn't seem to matter. His feet moved back towards the living room, stopping before the small white square of paper on the floor. Things are looking up. He grabbed it quickly and headed for the couch.

The glow from the fishtank seemed brighter than usual. "How are you doing, fellas? Quite a show, huh? Thumbs up or thumbs down, whaddya say?" His voice sounded shaky. He picked up the box of fish food and sprinkled a little in the tank.

He sat down on the leather couch, slouching low against the cushions. He was still holding the piece of paper in his other hand. He turned it over and over for a long time before he stopped. *Wiekamp Airforce Base.*

*******

The bartender gave Krycek a quick once-over as he came in the door. The dimly-lit room was narrow and long with the bar and stools running along one side and a row of small wooden tables and chairs on the other. There were a few people sitting at the tables and a bloated old guy on one of the stools, shot glass in one hand and cigarette in the other. A collage of beer bottles, all shapes and brands, lined the gold-veined,mirrored wall behind the bar above a shelf of small kegs.

He checked for exits, and saw the small red sign above the door at the far end of the room. There was an alcove next to it with a public phone. There was probably a bathroom back there, too, but he couldn't see it.

"Heineken," he told the bartender. He wanted something stronger, but he knew it wouldn't be too smart. Not at the moment.

The bartender nodded and pulled a glass mug from a shelf.

He had some twenties in one pocket and a couple of hundreds in another, mixed up with some rubles. The smooth old bastard hadn't taken his cash at least. Of course, it wasn't even enough to cover one night at the Four Seasons. His lips twitched at the thought. For a man whose last places of residence were a gulag and a damp metal corner in the hold of a freighter, he was a lot less choosy than he used to be. Besides, there was still time before he had to decide on his Last Night on Earth Blowout. Hell, maybe there was even a chance...

"That'll be two dollars."

The bartender placed the glass of beer on a paper coaster in front of him. He fished out a twenty from his jeans pocket and tossed it on the counter. As he looked up, he caught the bartender staring at his hand. The prosthesis. Deliberately, he took hold of it and cradled it against his lap.

The bartender's eyes snapped up with a flicker of embarrassment. God, how he despised that look, that mixture of curiosity and pity. The fucking arm. He worked so hard at pretending to ignore it, disguise it, live around it, and then he'd see that fleeting look on some stranger's face and it would all come rushing back at him. And every time, just like now, he'd clamp down on the feelings, forcing them back into the dark with all the other nightmares.

Anyway, he had a call to make.

His voice was calm and controlled when he spoke. "Does that phone work back there?"

"Yeah."

"Could I have some quarters with the change."

The bartender nodded and headed for the register. Krycek picked up his glass and took a long swallow of beer, almost moaning at how good it tasted. God, he'd forgotten. There were so many small comforting things that had slipped away, little bits of normalcy leeched from his life over the last few years. He drank some more, enjoying the flavor and coldness of it going down his throat. He savored it as if it might be his last taste.

A moment later, the bartender dropped his change and some quarters on the counter next to his beer.

He wiped foam from his mouth with the back of his hand and glanced towards the alcove. "Be right back." He wrinkled his nose as he passed the end of the bar, through the old guy's haze of smoke, and decided to go into the washroom first. It was just a small gray room with a stained porcelain sink, a toilet and a tiny barred window. He slipped the latch into place, locking the door. Public bathrooms made him jumpy.

The face in the mirror shocked him. He stared at his reflection, wondering if he'd ever looked this bone-weary before. He supposed not. He'd never felt quite this tired before. So tired it was painful. Amazing, the variety of pain in the world. It seemed he was attaining connoisseur status in that particular subject.

He splashed some water on his face, fingertips suddenly pausing, involuntarily, against his lips.

*******

Illusory control and irrepressible destiny, now there was a couple to watch on the dance floor.

Mulder played with the piece of paper in his hands, turning it this way and that, and thought about how a single involvement of feeling could implicate a person in a future of inextricable human involvements. He thought about how much easier it was to believe in disbelief.

His face felt hot. Or was it just that one spot on his cheek? It felt like a cold burn. Of all the things the cunning prick could've done.

He looked at the square of paper again, at the neatly printed letters. He held it up in his left hand, twirling it through his fingers. His mind shuffled through the sensations and images, replaying them: a hand grabbing his neck, muscle and force shoving him forward, the crack of his body hitting the floor, the strength behind the arm. One arm.

That was it.

One arm.

The images were fast and shadowy as he sifted through them. Then, with a sudden clench in his stomach, he saw it, glimpses out of the corner of his eye, captured in his mind like a grainy photo in an album. The stiff unnatural hand, bloodless, lifeless. Fake.

"You're losing it, Mulder. I can beat you with one hand." Krycek had meant it, literally.

And he had flung back a reply that he still couldn't fathom, like something out of Sexual Innuendo for All Occasions.

He didn't want to think about that just yet.

So, Krycek hadn't been that lucky after all, back in Tunguska. Some helpful Russian souls had cut off his arm.

He glanced at his own shoulder, remembering how the stump had looked, courtesy of a hypodermic and an enforced, virtual nightmare. One arm gone, then two. Waking to a feeling of horror unlike anything he'd ever experienced before, waking up to discover pieces of himself gone, cut away for nothing. He could still hear himself screaming.

He wondered how the reality had been for Krycek. How had they done it? Had they dragged him off to some makeshift hospital? Had he been unconscious? Awake? No. No, he couldn't have been awake.

*******

Slowly, he ran a fingertip over the curve of his lips, brushing away the droplets of water. He had wanted to kiss Mulder on the mouth, hard. He had wanted... But it was better that he hadn't.

"I'll never let you forget," he whispered into the mirror. A thin smile grew over his face as he remembered the shell-shocked look in those hazel eyes. Yeah, you wiseass, you fucked-up, beautiful fool, you have a helluva lot to figure out. Come fight the war, Mulder, and maybe you'll find all that truth you've been searching for...or running from. Maybe you'll even find me in there somewhere.

He turned the faucet up as far as it would go and splashed handfuls of cold water over his face.

The call. He better make the call. He tore a few paper towels from the dispenser and wiped his face. All his bridges were burning down around him. There was no going back to Russia, not that he'd wanted to in any case, but that meant he was well and truly on his own now, and he couldn't afford any more mistakes.

He went out to the phone and checked it over before dropping in some change. Then, he took a long, deep breath and punched in the numbers. After the second ring, the smooth voice answered.

"Yes?"

"I spoke to Mulder," he said.

"And?"

"I...gave him the information, but I don't know if he'll do anything about it."

"Did you explain what's at stake?"

"There's no reason why he should believe me. I don't see why you didn't talk to him yourself. What, afraid he'd muss up your suit?"

"The information is far more persuasive coming from you."

A wisp of fear curled around his stomach. "Why do say that?" he asked evenly. Uncomfortably, he sensed a smile in the other man's answer.

"Agent Mulder has faced some unpleasant realizations of late that have affected him in ways even those closest to him cannot fully comprehend. Eventually, he will be forced to make some very difficult choices." There was a resigned sigh in the old man's voice. "You are more than just his enemy, Alex. I believe there's a bond between you and Agent Mulder, a rather complex one, whether either of you cares to acknowledge it or not. It can be very useful. Ironically, I think he will act on information from you before he would....believe...anyone else. In any case, we will know soon enough."

Krycek bit down on his lip. The smooth bastard was playing with him again. Fishing around in his mind with his little barbed hooks. He was an expert at the game. Well, he wasn't about to give him anything, one way or the other. "I suppose we will. So now what?" he said instead.

There was a slight pause on the other end of the line. "We still have a bargain to complete. You have several more tasks to accomplish, and then, as agreed, the documents and materials you need will be waiting for you."

"Fine--" He started to hang up when the old man continued.

"You should consider maintaining contact with the Syndicate after our own alliance has concluded."

He couldn't believe the audacity of the man. He kept his voice low. "Is that a fact? I don't recall volunteering to help you this time."

The other man ignored his comment. "The outcome of the Project is as important to you as it is to the rest of us. If resistance is possible, than victory is possible. Unfortunately, as you know, this is not a view that the rest of my colleagues share. At least, not at the moment."

He wondered at the other man's confidence. There seemed little cause for it, as far as he could see. It would be a long and difficult struggle, at best. It was typical of that group of arrogant, Machiavellian assholes to believe they could manipulate all the players to their own advantage, and always on their own terms. "I'm sure your buddies have already made contingency plans should any of us manage to get out of this alive."

The smile was back in the cultured voice. "Of course. That would only be prudent. That has been our modus operandi from the beginning." There was another pause before he spoke again. "It would not surprise me if your path and Agent Mulder's cross again, under quite different circumstances."

His grip on the phone tightened, knuckles whitening. "As you know, I have plans of my own. I don't need yours or anyone else's. I'll finish what I said I'd do for you. I owe you nothing beyond that."

"Perhaps, but it would do well for you to remember that your resources aren't what they used to be, and the Syndicate's are...considerable. You will need their help."

"Their help? You mean, *your* help, don't you?"

The silence stretched until it was almost unnerving. "Each of us must use whatever means are available to us to achieve our goals, no matter the source."

The cryptic reply sent a chill up Krycek's spine. "The Syndicate's resources haven't done much for any of you lately."

"That remains to be seen. For the present, meet me as we arranged. Soon it will be time to find our old wolf and return him to the fold. And, yes, I know you disapprove. However regrettable you or I may consider it, it is necessary. So be prompt, Alex. We still have a good deal to discuss. And you know how I hate to be kept waiting."

Teeth gritted, Krycek didn't say anything, just quietly hung up the phone.

*******

Mulder squinted up through the darkness at the water stain on the ceiling above his desk. The white paint had peeled away in a jagged, fist-sized circle, revealing the bare plaster underneath, mottled with spidery cracks. He never noticed it before. Suddenly, he felt a certain peculiar empathy with his ceiling, vulnerable as it was to the forces of nature and inferior plumbing eating away at its protective layers.

His mind was on a wild ride, he decided. He was cycling through observations, events and encounters, from the mundane to the abstruse, trying to find some center of gravity to pull his thoughts together. Turning his face awaay from the ceiling, his eyes skipped over the white square of paper that now lay beside him on the couch, a symbolic flag of surrender against the black leather. He closed his eyes and, much to his discomfort, felt his mind spiraling, inevitably, backward...

He wasn't cold when he should have been. Maybe it was the daylight coming in through the bars. Maybe the sun warmed the stones and concrete for enough heat retention. Or maybe it was just his own adrenaline, his heart still racing.

He glanced over at Krycek, scrabbling at the iron bars like a cornered rat. His white tee shirt was streaked with sweat, a wide, wet line arrowing down between his shoulder blades. The guy was scared, really scared, which made him even more dangerous than usual.

Of all the people in the fucking world, he had to drag Alex Krycek out of the country with him to the backwoods of Russia, as his interpreter, no less. Bullwinkle hooking up with Boris. Only he couldn't imagine the moose doing anything quite so stupid. It was even tougher to come up with a reasonable excuse for himself, reason seemingly having little to do with much of his behavior where Krycek was concerned.

He stared again at the grim stone wall in front of his face. What exactly did they do to prisoners in a place like this? Somehow he didn't think that light exercise and a chance to catch up on his Dostoevsky was going to be on the agenda.

Torture. Krycek said they were going to torture them. He turned to look at the other man again. He had shifted into a sitting position against the opposite wall, legs pulled up, arms locked around his knees. His head was down, eyes fixed on the stone floor between them.

There seemed no point in standing, so Mulder sat down, too. The guy in the next cell, the one who so conveniently spoke English, didn't seem to be in a talking mood. In fact, it was very quiet. No. Somewhere, muffled by distance and walls, there was a faint sound like someone shouting. Or screaming?

He gazed across the gulf of ten feet at Krycek's huddled form, his mind echoing the other man's words.

Don't touch me again.

The emotions beneath the words had hit him like a spotlight, capturing him in a disturbing way he hadn't at all expected.

As it was, his own feelings for Krycek were so dark and so murky, he couldn't define them. And that annoyed the hell out of him. If it was only hatred, simple and unrefined, it would be easier. Much easier. He would've left Krycek chained in the car to rot. Or thrown him over to that cigarette smoking shithead and his cronies. Let his former masters deal with him with their usual extreme efficiency. Or he could have turned him over to Skinner. Done his proper duty and put the little bastard in custody. There was plenty enough to hold Krycek on suspicion, at the very least. Any of those options were far saner and more reasonable than the one he chose.

Krycek's body was rocking slightly back and forth. His face was pale. His teeth raked over his lips, once, twice. His eyes were hidden behind long, lowered lashes. The man was a mystery, as slippery and dark as the oilien creature that had once possessed him.

Mulder hated mysteries. There were too many in his life already.

They were both afraid. That was understandable. Thrown into a place like this, what man in his right man wouldn't be? The anger wasn't surprising either. Krycek was daring him. He had the upper hand here. He spoke the language. Yet, it was not as much about that, about what might happen to either of them in this Russian dungeon as it was about what had always been happening between them. Their private little war. Their lives seemed to crisscross again and again as if by perverted, fated design, with personal motives and vast conspiracies binding them together in some kind of secret, Gordian knot.

Just looking at Krycek now, he felt the sudden urge to grab him and punch him in the face. Hit him again and again until he was bloody. Hold him down, make him...hurt. He drew in a quick breath, clenched and unclenched his fists. Tried to clear his head. It was ridiculous. He wasn't a violent man. There were no solutions in violence, no truth in vengence. He knew that. What purpose, then, would it serve to beat up on Alex Krycek?

It would just feel very, very good, a small voice whispered from the shadows of his mind.

He stood up and walked across the cell. The dark head jerked up at his approach, catching and holding his stare. Clear green eyes looked back at him, glittering with fear and...expectation? Full lips parting, the pink tip of Krycek's tongue slid up against the edge of his teeth. Mulder felt a twist of nerves, a sliver of something like revulsion, in the pit of his stomach. Is he expecting me to hit him? Does he want me to?

Slowly, Mulder started to crouch down and saw the barest flinch, the sudden tensing in Krycek's shoulders, watched as Krycek let go of his knees, hands moving harmlessly to rest, palms flat, against the stone floor. Open, waiting.

* Don't touch me again.* So, even that was a lie.

Mulder leaned forward. A flicker of triumph gleamed in Krycek's eyes. You don't know me, thought Mulder with sudden intensity, moving closer. He tilted his head, his face brushing against Krycek's, his lips making contact with a cool cheek, the touch changing into a kiss, pausing.

In the few seconds that followed, Mulder became acutely aware of the sound of Krycek's stunned gasp, the feel of his too-soft skin dotted with new stubble, the quick rise and fall of his chest, the mingled scent of sweat and soap.

You weren't expecting this, were you? thought Mulder with quick satisfaction. He nuzzled the flesh beneath his lips, instantly amazed at the delicate circle of fire that danced around his mouth, just where it touched Krycek's skin.

It felt good.

Could anything be more bizarre?

The sensation heightened as Krycek's head turned, very slowly, never breaking the contact between them. Closer, closer, closer. Until the edge of Krycek's lips were brushing his. Until he felt Krycek's breath in his mouth.

The fire spread out over his skin, igniting through his lungs, his chest, his groin. He was kissing Krycek full on the mouth, tongue thrusting into moist warmth, hard and desperate. And Krycek was kissing him back. Small, husky noises rose and blended between them.

He sensed a tremor running through then both, though only their mouths touched. Strangely, it seemed as if their bodies were melting into each other.

Mulder's cock was getting hard.

Don't-don't-don't-don't. A small, insistent voice cried out from the back of his brain. Think!

He pushed himself away and stood, stumbling back a step. His hands were shaking. His whole body was trembling. What the hell? What the hell?!

"Mulder." The word was a raw whisper. He looked down into Krycek's face. His lips were parted and ripe, glistening from their kiss, his breathing ragged. Did his own face look like that? Was it that transparent, that hungry? Were his own eyes that...vulnerable?

He could fuck Alex Krycek. It was no revelation, merely a fact finally acknowledged, a piece of information some part of him had known since they'd met. He could rip the clothes off of him here and now, on the filthy stone floor of a cell in a Russian gulag, take his body any way he wanted, and Krycek would let him. He knew that, too.

Mulder took another step back. No. No. Whatever his mind or his body might tell him, he wasn't going to let it happen. He wasn't going to let himself *want* Alex Krycek. Never. His memories recoiled at the thought, fought against the need.

"Mulder. Please." Soft, seductive.

No. He wouldn't let it be true. It was unacceptablee. He couldn't afford to losethat much of himself. Slowly, deliberately, he raised his arm and wiped the kiss away with the back of his hand. He willed himself to look at Krycek. "I don't need you here, or anywhere." And watched a fragile hope die away as the wall formed once again between them.

The cell seemed suddenly colder, darker. Better. He needed the cold now. He turned his back and walked to the furthest corner, sliding down against the wall, wrapping his arms around himself. He looked up at the barred window, at the fading light. In the shadows beneath the window, Krycek sat, unmoving...

Mulder opened his eyes, his mind snapping back to the present. He rubbed his face with his hands as if the action could somehow erase the memory once and for all. Too late. It seemed that Krycek would never let him forget. No. He would never forget.

Every choice is an exclusion. A professor at Oxford had told him that years ago. They had been discussing western religion and philosophy, Man's fall from grace and moral opposites flowing from binary opposites. The origin of and the dilemma posed by what you want to do versus what you should do. Crap that seemed like intellectual finger food to him at the time. Such was the arrogance of youth.

Well, what should he do? Check out Krycek's fantastic story about alien rebels and conspiracies to exterminate the human race? A short time ago, it might've been easy. Right up his spooky alley. But he wasn't the same man anymore. He knew too much, yet he was sure of nothing. What truths were lies, what lies were true? Curve balls were flying everywhere. He was only certain of one thing: that his single-minded crusade had almost cost Scully her life.

*Scully.* She'd stood by him through it all, even though she wouldn't, couldn't, believe.

Her friendship was his anchor in the world, his center of calm. In many ways, she had kept him sane. Ironically, she seemed more open now to extreme possiblities than he was. It was as if they had somehow traded places. Yet, instead of bringing them closer, it seemed to be pushing them further apart.

So why should he believe Alex Krycek, of all people? What was Krycek to him? He was everything Scully wasn't. He was unpredictability, danger, violence, treachery, and a minefield of emotions so passionate and intense that no logic could touch them.

If Scully was the quiet eye of the hurricane, its still and safe center, then Krycek was the storm.

Mulder rubbed at his face again and glanced at the piece of paper beside him on the couch. Wiekamp Airforce Base. Unconsciously, he brushed his fingertips lightly across his mouth. A person would have to have a hole in his head to be lured into anything by the likes of Alex Krycek.

His lips stretched into a slow, uneasy smile. Then, he began to laugh.

*******

Krycek stared at the pay phone, a frown line creasing the bridge of his nose. His dealings with the Syndicate were taking on a bizarre new twist. That elegant, wily old bastard was going to try to persuade him to continue their alliance. He wondered what the old man could offer him. More importantly, what would the others have to say about it? He had the clear sense that there was more dissension within the group now than he had even imagined. The tolerance level on all sides seemed to be hitting bottom. Much as it delighted him to think of those devious powerbrokers finally going for each others' grizzled throats, it was also the worst possible time for it. Decades of their convoluted machinations had brought them all to this crisis. The alien infiltration was beginning. Options were fewer and turning very ugly. Everyone's life was on the line now.

If only Mulder had believed him. The man had the survival skills of a lemming. Ah, but that mind of his...truly a marvel to behold. Even with only scraps of the truth and despite setback after setback, Mulder still managed to keep going in the right direction. And, of course, he had Scully. They made a good team. A perfect team. Krycek choked back a familiar stab of envy, damning himself for the thoughts that always followed.

Yeah, he knew what it was like to be Mulder's partner, remembered what it was like to be around him every day, listening to him working out the puzzles, piece by piece, following his hunches with abandon when the facts were no where to be found. And he wondered for the umpteenth time if Mulder and Scully were lovers. If Mulder was in love with her. Well, what the hell difference should it make to him? Scully was a good-looking woman. Hell, he'd tumble her himself, if he had the chance. If he didn't have to listen to her at the same time.

Krycek squeezed his eyes shut. Can't you even stop lying to yourself? It wasn't Scully that interested him. Haunted him. Obsessed him.

He had imagined the scene too often: a safe place where he didn't have to look over his shoulder or check for exits. A place where he didn't even need a gun, where he could keep the lights on and the windows wide open. A big, soft bed with clean sheets. Dark satin sheets. Yeah. And there, sitting cross-legged and beautifully naked in the middle of it would be Mulder, grinning and cracking sunflower seeds, spitting shells out into his palm. Krycek imagined standing by that bed, reaching out slowly to caress the side of Mulder's face with the back of his hand, his own real left hand, and feeling the smooth warm skin against his own. Mulder would look at him then, and slowly his expression would change. The hazel eyes became troubled, and then angry.

*Ah, don't worry Mulder, pretend it's just sex. It doesn't have to compromise your hatred for me.*

Krycek opened his eyes, feeling the emptiness flowing into him again. Somehow, much as he tried, he could never imagine a place without the past in it.

The sound of coughing made him draw back as the old drunk from the bar weaved towards him. His face was red and mapped with broken veins, his eyes milky. The cough was like a death rattle. The stench of stale booze wrapped in a shroud of cigarette smoke encased the man as he shuffled by and went into the restroom.

God, how he detested the smell of cigarette smoke. It instantly reminded him of that conniving sonofabitch. Well, if nothing else, Krycek could say he'd learned the finer points of ruthlessness from a master. He only hoped he'd live long enough to return the favor. It galled him to think he would have to drag that bastard out of hiding...and keep him alive.

He walked backed to the bar, surreptitiously eyeing the other patrons and the entrance. He'd finish his beer and then he'd go.He pulled out one of the tall stools and sat down. He looked at his beer. "Bartender," he called. "I want a fresh one."

The barman glanced at his half-finished Heineken. "You're not gonna finish that?"

"No. Just give me another." He watched the barman's fuzzy eyebrows rise a notch before the man shrugged and took the half-full mug away. Bartenders were accustomed to oddballs, he supposed. Let the guy think he was some kind of compulsive. He was, after all. He had to be. He watched as the guy grabbed another glass from the shelf and poured a fresh beer from the tapped keg.

It tasted just as good as the first one. He sat for a few minutes, enjoying it and trying to think about nothing else. Simple pleasures, two words that rarely entered into his vocabulary anymore. He realized he couldn't afford the time for them. He finished the beer quickly, tossed a twenty on the bar counter and got up to leave.

"What about your change?" the bartender called after him.

"Keep it."

"Hey, thanks buddy, stop in again, okay. Next time, the beer's on the house."

Krycek looked over his shoulder at the bartender's smiling face. "Yeah, sure. Next time."

Outside, the wind had died down a little, but it was colder all the same. He thought about Mulder, sitting in his apartment with a gun uncomfortably in his hand and a little piece of paper on the floor. *Be open to extreme possibilities.* Wasn't that part of Mulder's credo? A small smile touched Krycek's lips, one that actually made it to his eyes. He pulled the collar up on his leather jacket and walked out into the night.

\--End--

 

* * *

 

WILD CARDS by Courtney Gray  
  
Part 2 in the "How to Throw A Curve Ball" series.  
Spoilers: Takes place sometime between The Red and the Black and The End.

* * *

Alex Krycek stood near the fine, French voile curtains and gazed out at the rain. Sometimes, the ironies of his life amazed even him.

First, he was his prisoner. Now, he was his houseguest. So, what was this Syndicate man's angle? What price was there to be paid this time around? One thing was certain, he wasn't like the Smoker. He didn't have that particular malignant arrogance, though Krycek knew the old man was all too capable of killing if he deemed it necessary. What Krycek couldn't understand was why he had singled him out now, why he seemed almost paternal towards him at times. It made Krycek uneasy. It made him feel obligated. Granted, the Syndicate was now divided about the Project. New alliances were forming in response to the Colonists' internal struggle and to the rise of an unexpected Resistance. The consequences would inevitably affect everyone. Everyone. Yet Krycek suspected that his elegant patron had a more complicated agenda than the rest of his shadowy colleagues. Whatever the old man's motives, they were keeping Krycek alive and safe, at least for the moment. They were giving him time. He still had contacts, even in Russia, even with all his bridges burned, he could still call in a favor, or more. He had contacts in even strangers quarters, too. But he needed time.

The rain rolled down the windows in heavy, drumming sheets. The storm was getting worse. Another crack of lightning tore through the sky in the distance. The rumble of thunder that followed was louder. It seemed the perfect sort of night to be faced with meeting Mulder again.

It was going to be difficult. He remembered the feeling of surprise and relief that rushed through him when the old man told him Mulder had gone to Wiekamp Airforce Base. They were still unsure of the fate of the Resistance leader, but they knew something had happened. Something had changed because of Mulder's presence there.

Because Mulder had believed him.

A bright white flash lit the windows, followed by another boom of thunder that sounded as if it was exploding right over the roof. It was a bad night to be out. Krycek looked down at the antique writing desk, at the canvas bag on top of the green blotter. How had the smooth old bastard managed to get a hold of that, he wondered. And why would he think that Mulder would want it, or be able to utilize it, or even manage to keep it safe? Mulder's track record for holding on to any sort of evidence was somewhere just shy of dismal. Well, perhaps that was the real object of the exercise: to give Mulder something else to lose.

What puzzled him was the fact that the old man could've given Mulder the stuff himself. He could've had it delivered by one of his errand boys. Hell, he could've sent it FedEx, for all that. But no. "Agent Mulder will meet you at the house. Give him the holdall and inform him of its contents." It had not been a request. Then Krycek was shown a file folder explaining the facts behind what was in the canvas bag so that he wouldn't be completely in the dark himself.

Krycek got up from the desk and started pacing around the large room. The carpet was thick and plush under his bare feet. His gaze swept the teak four-poster bed and its silver and rose patterned silk spread that so perfectly matched the wallpaper, the overflowing bookcase casually sprinkled with first editions, the oil of an English country scene in its gilded frame. He paused in front of it and smiled. A foxhunt, what else. The hounds were scattering over the rolling hillside, the horses with their red-jacketed riders trailing behind. But the fox was no where to be seen. He wondered if the painting was one of the old man's favorites.

He walked into the adjoining bathroom and stopped before the floor length mirror, running his hand through his damp hair. Being able to take a hot shower, have a good meal, sleep in a luxurious bed, these were comforts he hadn't had in a long time. If Mulder met him tonight, he would have to leave this place. He couldn't see how he could remain here, but then, he wasn't sure what the old man's plans were for him. At least, not yet. He only hoped they didn't conflict with his own. It was disturbing enough to know that the old man wanted him to bring back the Smoker. God, how Krycek hated that man. He shrugged off the thought. He'd have his day of reckoning with that one eventually.

He looked down at his new prosthetic. It fit better than the old one, and it was better balanced. He didn't have to compensate as much when he walked. More importantly, it wasn't as noticeably...fake. He straightened the sleeve of his dark green cotton shirt over the wrist. Maybe, eventually, it would even become easier to pretend he didn't notice it.

#####

Mulder leaned back in his desk and tossed the wadded up paper at the wastebasket. It teetered on the edge for a second, then dropped inside. "Two points." It was his fourth rim shot in a row, a personal record. It was also the only productive activity he'd accomplished in the past hour and a half.

He sat up and drummed his fingers on the stack of papers on his desk. More damn reports for Skinner. He hated the lulls more than anything. They gave him too much time to think about everything else.

He glanced at his watch. Scully had left hours ago. It was Friday night and though he doubted she had any plans, she was always less of a fool about hanging around the office than he was. Any minute now, the janitors would be making their way down to the basement level. They always worked from the top down, in true elitist fashion. Admittedly, his office was also the closest one to the building dumpsters. All the rubbish in one convenient location.

He let out a long sigh and got up. Well, he had an appointment to keep. In fact, he should've left over an hour ago. The ever-cultured British voice on the phone had been quite precise. "There's a package for you containing something I believe you may find most useful. A number of parties have been looking for it for quite some time now." As usual, the man gave Mulder no answers to his questions, except to say that he would be given more information when he collected the package. The man gave him the address of a house in Arlington and told him when to arrive. Instincts prickling and giving into a stubborn reluctance, Mulder had none too politely replied that he wasn't in the mood for any more wild goose chases.

"Then you saw nothing at Wiekamp Airforce Base, Agent Mulder?"

That, as they say, was the question. "I'm not sure what I saw," he had answered honestly. Images shot through with light and shadows; the shift and bounce of the truck. A man with no eyes. And someone else. The feel of the gun in his hand and not knowing who or what he was shooting at, but just needing to stop whatever was happening. Light descending over them in a blinding white cloud. Time lost and his mind blanked. The memory had returned later, but only in hazy fragments. He just wasn't sure.

"You saw the alien Resistance leader, Agent Mulder."

Mulder had been silent then, the phone receiver clutched against his ear.

"Agent Mulder?"

It was a 50s B Movie marathon. Battle from Beyond the Stars. They Came to Conquer Earth. Attack of the Eyeless Invaders. Now that he was finally convinced it had all been a fabric of lies, carefully woven over decades to conceal the government's covert experiments on its own citizens, he was being jerked around again. Thrown another curve.

All he wanted was the truth. Before, he...believed. His search was for corroboration, for the evidence of the truth he already knew. Now, it was almost like starting over. Yet he knew he'd already taken that first step when he went to Wiekamp.

"Why are you doing this?" he asked, hoping to catch some insight into motive, if not fact. There was a pause on the other end of the line and he thought, for a moment, that the man might not answer.

"Everyone makes mistakes, Agent Mulder. Some mistakes are irreversible. However, even then, one can perhaps affect the consequences. Let us just say, I think the game would benefit from a wild card or two."

"Is that what this is to you, a game?"

"For some men, everything is a game. It forces us all to play. Sometimes poker, sometimes chess. Yes, in many ways, it's much like a game."

"I prefer Parcheesi myself."

The beat of silence that followed seemed very cold. "You have a peculiar sense of humor, Agent Mulder."

"So I've been told. Look, for all I know I've been playing Trivial Pursuit for the last five years. Now, why don't you just tell me what kind of information you're giving me. Right now."

"Alex Krycek can answer your questions when you pick up the package."

It was his turn to be speechless. Krycek. The last time he met Krycek...well, he didn't even like to think about the last time. He'd thought about it too much as it was. "Is he working for you now?" he finally managed to ask.

"We have a mutual goal."

Mulder could hear Krycek's words echoing in his mind: *I was sent by a man, a man who knows as I do... * "It seems his loyalties are for sale to the highest bidder."

"Alex Krycek is a practical and resourceful young man in need of guidance."

The Devil's Disciple? Krycek could probably teach the old man a thing or two, thought Mulder angrily, tiring from the cryptic runaround. "He's dangerous and belongs in prison."

"Really? I would think it would be extremely difficult to generate an effective prosecution against someone without any evidence whatsoever. And it's shocking how easily evidence can disappear these days, assuming, of course, that it could be found in the first place. Given the global crisis we are all facing now, to preoccupy ourselves with Alex Krycek's criminal culpability seems rather a waste of time and energy, wouldn't you say?"

"Why are you protecting him? He's a killer, a traitor. He'll betray you just like he's betrayed everyone else."

"Are you referring to his former partnership with you?"

Mulder said nothing.

"In England, some regard Benedict Arnold as a hero. It's a matter of perspective, after all, Agent Mulder. From our point of view, Krycek was merely carrying out the assignment he was given, as he was trained to do, and as we fully expected him to do. In fact, some of my colleagues feel he was rather ineffective and far too independent, which is fortunate for you, if not for him."

Mulder scowled at the receiver. "You should all form a glee club. There's a little place in upstate New York called Attica that could really use one."

The man sighed. "For god's sake, after all you've witnessed, your juvenile naivete is becoming rather tiresome. Now, you have the address. If you are still interested in pursuing the truth, then you will be there tonight."

And then the line had gone dead with a quiet click, leaving him with yet another unanswered question. Mulder snapped out of his reverie at the sound of voices in the hallway. The janitors. He grabbed his trenchcoat, glanced at his briefcase on the floor before dismissing it, and walked out of the office.

The night sky rumbled and cracked as he emerged from the Hoover building. The street lamps were hazy amber globes of light hovering in the pouring rain and cars knifed through sheets of water on the roadway.

"Shit." He hadn't brought an umbrella and, naturally, he'd parked in the lot across the street. By the time he reached the car, he was soaked. His hair was dripping, rivulets snaking down his collar, down his back. His pant legs were wet, his shoes and socks drenched from a puddle he missed avoiding. It didn't improve his mood. He considered going home, but his curiosity was far too piqued. And then there was Krycek. Beyond the sense of unfinished business, there was a disturbing feeling of inevitability whenever Krycek was involved. Their lives seemed to be forever twisted together like barbed wire, and every new encounter seemed more unsettling, more unresolved than the last. This time, though, no surprises. No moves in the dark. This time, he would be ready for him.

The windshield wipers whooshed in a steady rhythm as he drove through the rain-soaked streets. He thought about calling Scully. It would only be sensible to let her know where he was going; she could back him up in case there was any trouble. Krycek was no boy scout, after all. The cellphone was in his hand, his finger hovering over the speed dial button before he threw it back on the seat.

He hadn't told Scully about Krycek coming to his apartment. He showed her the slip of paper about Wiekamp Air Force Base, but that was all. He still didn't understand why he hadn't told her that it was Krycek who had given it to him. Just as he couldn't quite understand why he didn't want to tell her that he was going to meet him now.

#######

Krycek listened to the faint chimes of the hall clock downstairs as he pulled on his boots. Mulder was late. Maybe he wasn't going to show. That wouldn't make his well-manicured host at all happy. He got up from the bed and stood before the bureau mirror, lightly touching the left sleeve of his shirt. The material was a soft, brushed cotton, too thin to conceal the straps of his prosthesis. He stared at the vague outline beneath the shirt, his lips tightening, and went to the closet, looking through the items hanging there. The old man had even bought him some clothes, his sartorial sensibilities balking at Krycek's shabby Russian leftovers, he assumed.

He took a wool, charcoal-colored shirt off of one of the hangers. It was thick and bulky, and he put it on over his green shirt. There, that was better. He realized his hand was sweating and wiped his palm across the thigh of his black jeans. Strange that he would feel so nervous. Considering all the things he'd faced, all the things he'd done, the prospect of seeing Mulder again shouldn't tie his stomach into knots. It meant nothing to him. Nothing at all. His hand balled into a fist as he tried to swallow past the lump in his throat.

Lightening flashed through the window curtains, making him jump. A roar of thunder followed. He gritted his teeth and walked over to the bed, pulling his gun out from under the pillow, clicking the safety off and on again. The feel of the cold metal in his hand was reassuring. He wasn't going to let Mulder get to him. He was going to maintain control over the situation. If he had to stick a gun in Mulder's face again, then so much the better. He slipped the gun into his belt and went downstairs to wait. Another half-hour passed by as he paced and prowled through the rooms. Every few minutes, he would check through the curtains at the front of the house and glance at the controls of the security alarm system.

The residential, tree-lined street was fairly dark, with just a streetlamp here and there and the pale rectangles of light from a few windows visible through the storm. The wind was howling accompaniment to the thunder, bending the branches of the trees, scattering the late autumn leaves into the rain like confetti.

Krycek was about to give up on Mulder when he heard a car going by and then backing up, stopping and then pulling up into the driveway. His pulse began to race, and he went to the window, drawing aside the curtain fractionally to watch as Mulder got out of the car and approached the house. He didn't have an umbrella, but he was still walking slowly, hesitantly, through the downpour towards the door.

Krycek drew in a long, hard breath and glanced down at this left arm, pulling at the end of his shirt sleeve, and headed for the door. He stood in front of it, waiting. The seconds ticked by. No knock, no ring. Had Mulder changed his mind? He looked through the peephole. Mulder was just standing there in front of the door, the rain rolling off his hair, his face, and his clothes. He was like a statue.

"Damn it." Krycek flung open the door and found himself looking straight into Mulder's wide hazel eyes. For a moment, all the words caught in his throat. The sound of the wind and the sting of the rain brought him back to himself. "Get inside, Mulder."

Mulder just kept staring at him, raindrops trailing down from his hair over his face. His clothes were soaking wet. Krycek reached out to pull Mulder inside. Mulder blinked, glanced at his hand, and quickly brushed it aside, stepping into the house. Krycek closed the door and set the bolt, turning to see Mulder's Sig Sauer pointed at his chest.

"Give me your gun."

Krycek realized he hadn't tucked it out of sight. With an irritated sigh, he removed it slowly and held it out to Mulder, handle first. Mulder grabbed it, slid it into his coat pocket and, after a quick look around, motioned for him to walk towards the living room. "There's no one else here, Mulder," Krycek told him over his shoulder.

"Just keep moving." They were in the middle of the spacious living room when Mulder told him to stop. Clothes drenched and hair plastered against his forehead, Mulder was creating a small pool of water where he stood. Even with the gun in his hand, he had a certain pathetic, lost quality about him. It reminded Krycek of the way he looked the last time they saw each other, when he had left Mulder sitting on the floor of his apartment in the dark, gun in hand. He hadn't been quite sure then if Mulder would shoot him or not. He still wasn't sure.

"I can get you a towel to dry yourself off," he offered. It was a strange feeling, being in such a domestic setting, playing the considerate host. He was reminded again of how inexorably his life had changed, and how quickly it could change again.

Mulder was looking intently at his left hand. The room lighting was good enough to make Krycek willfully resist the urge to shift his body away from the scrutiny. Whatever Mulder saw, he didn't seem surprised by it. Krycek wondered if Mulder had detected his prosthesis the last time they met. It was certainly possible. Mulder usually noticed everything but the obvious. It would also explain his stupid wisecrack. As if on cue, Mulder spoke up.

"Your new owner said you had some information for me."

Krycek tried not to flinch. Mulder had a way with words. Maybe he'd inherited it from that cold-blooded bastard of a father of his. Fortunately, it seemed to be the only trait they shared. He sighed, trying to ignore the insults. "He wants to help you. I want to help you."

Mulder gave him a frost-covered smile. "Oh, but you've all done so much for me already."

"Do you want the information or not? If not, then get the hell out of here." He was suddenly anger, more at the old man than at Mulder, for setting up this pointless confrontation.

"I didn't drive through this fucking storm tonight for the scenery."

Krycek nodded tightly. "I'll go get it."

Mulder jabbed the gun towards him. "Oh, no, I'm not letting you out of my sight."

"It's upstairs. I'll just bring-"

"We'll both go." Mulder waved the gun towards the doorway.

Krycek looked at the gun and managed a bitter smile of his own. "Sure, Special Agent Mulder, whatever you say." He looked up then and their eyes met and held. The air between them suddenly felt as electric as the storm outside. He turned away, not quite steadily, breaking the contact, and led Mulder out of the room and up the stairs.

#######

Mulder felt the raindrops dripping down his collar from his hair as he followed Krycek through the house. He patted the pocket of his trenchcoat, double-checking for Krycek's gun. He was wet. He was cold. Yet his pulse was racing. His heart was beating like a drum. It was the familiar surge of emotions that Krycek seemed to generate whenever they were near each other. With each successive meeting, the feeling grew into something ever more complicated, ever more...frustrating.

He gripped his gun, watching Krycek's back as they walked. He looked at the man's left side. Krycek was wearing a thick shirt. If Mulder hadn't already been sure about the fake arm, he wouldn't have been able to tell the difference. It was the hand. Almost life-like. Almost.

They walked up the stairs and into the first room on the right, which was a bedroom, a very attractive bedroom. The entire house reflected its rich and powerful owner, the man who was once his father's friend, thought Mulder. The man who now owned Alex Krycek, or so it seemed. He paused and scanned an elegantly framed oil painting with a note of amusement. "You have a nice little kennel here, Krycek," he said. "You must be a very obedient pet to deserve all this."

Krycek whirled around to face, his voice breathy. "No one owns me, Mulder. I'm getting tired of your insults. They're getting more predictable all the time. Why don't you just shut up, for once?"

Well, it seemed Krycek still had a few buttons to push. It almost brought a smile to his face. "My apologies. I forgot how sensitive you can be when you're not killing people."

"Don't push me Mulder. Let's just get this over with, all right?"

He was surprised by the sudden lack of anger in Krycek's reply. Instead, his tone was flat, weary. Mulder watched the man's eyes for a moment, watching the strange play of emotions there. "All right, where's the information?"

Krycek pointed to a canvas bag on the desk near the bed.

"Open it, show me what's in it."

Krycek unzipped the bag and took out several large manila file folders, about a half dozen disks and two thick black, spiral-bound notebooks. Mulder waved him aside with his gun and approached the desk. With his free hand, he flipped one of the notebooks open and scanned the first page. 'Notes and Observations' was the heading. Underneath that was a name: Joseph Ridley, M.D.

Mulder looked at Krycek questioningly, unable to hide his surprise. "Where did this come from?"

"The bag was in a locker in the Greyhound bus terminal in San Diego, California. Locker 935, to be exact. It was put there by a man named John Barnett."

Mulder felt a fist tighten in his chest at the name. John Barnett had been the only man that Mulder truly regretted not killing when he first had the chance. Too many people had died as a result, including Reggie Purdue, his mentor and his friend. He had few enough of those to spare. It was yet another layer of guilt on his psyche. "These are Ridley's research papers on his Progeria experiments. Barnett stole them four years ago to bargain for immunity."

Krycek nodded. "They're still searching for his papers, now more than ever."

"They?" Mulder opened one of the file folders, glancing at a computer printout of formulas and lists of chemical compounds. He sifted through some of the pages. It looked genuine, but he didn't have the expertise to tell one way or the other.

"The same ones that wanted it then, want it now."

"Why?"

"The Colonists want the information for their...hybridization experiments. We're not sure, but it seems that they've encountered some kind of problem with their specimens. Some kind of mutation possibly. They've been told about Ridley's research and now they want it. Maybe they think Ridley's work could provide some necessary component for their experiments."

"Specimens, Krycek? Do you know what you're saying?"

"Yes, Mulder, I know. If their agenda continues as planned, we'll all wind up as specimens for them."

Mulder lowered his gun slowly. "Did your boss make a set of copies for himself?"

"It'd defeat his purpose, just make it easier for his over-anxious colleagues to get to it first. They'll hand it over to the Colonists immediately. He figures you might be able use it as a bargaining chip, if you have to. In the meantime, you and Scully might be able to figure out what's in the research that makes it so important to them. How it fits in with everything else."

Mulder took a step towards the other man, noting the sudden tension in Krycek's body. "I'm surprised you didn't want to keep it yourself. As your own bargaining chip."

Krycek gave him a hollow laugh. "Yeah, right. We're playing in the big leagues now, Mulder, and I'm in the wrong position. Depending on who found out, keeping that stuff would only guarantee me a bullet in the head or worse."

"Worse?"

"First place in the specimen line."

"The Resistance you told me about--"

"There's a lot of confusion. Contact's been very sporadic."

Mulder felt as though Krycek was not telling him everything, not that that would be anything new. "Then it made no difference that I went to Wiekamp."

"If the leader had died, we would've heard something by now. It made a difference, Mulder. It might be part of the reason they want Ridley's papers now, so they can escalate their colonization process. Maybe the internal dissension is growing."

Mulder stared at Krycek, searching the green eyes for the truth. A clap of thunder shook through the house, the lightening flashing white through the windows a moment later. The storm was surrounding them. As Mulder held Krycek's gaze, he felt the belief settle inside him. He wasn't sure whether to pity himself for it or not. He also knew in his gut that Krycek was, once again, giving him only pieces of the puzzle. But then, Krycek himself was a mystery, with more twists and turns to him than all the other shadow men surrounding the Project. Mulder raised his gun again. "Put it all back in the bag."

Krycek let out a breath and began stuffing the folders and the rest into the canvas bag. He zipped it closed, picked it up and held it out towards Mulder.

The rain was pounding against the windows, and the wind whistled through the eaves. Mulder became aware of his wet clothes and the pool of water that seemed to have invaded his shoes. "I could use that towel," he said. He watched a small frown grow over Krycek's face, a line deepening across the bridge of his nose. He wondered why Krycek seemed uncomfortable. At the same time, he wondered where he could keep the Ridley research. Trying to hide it in his apartment would be like leaving it in the middle of Dulles International. He wasn't too confident about keeping it in the office either. He should hand the stuff over to Skinner. That would be correct procedure. Well, he could say with pride that he had never been accused of being a stickler for protocol. Besides, he didn't want to make this official business quite yet. That could bring in too many other parties and one too many chances of alerting the wrong people. He'd been down that road enough times already. He was going to keep this one under wraps for as long as possible. He wanted to check out the material through his own sources first, along with making a few extra copies of the data. The Gunmen. Yeah, no place safer than with that trio of high tech paranoids. He could ask them for help on deciphering some of it, too, maybe check out some medical contacts. They could also stash an extra copy or two of the data. Frohike might demand a couple of his limited edition videos in payment, but it would be worth it. He would drive directly over to their place. Then he'd call Scully. Try and explain it all. Somehow.

A towel was thrust into his chest. Krycek stepped back quickly, stopping only when he bumped into the desk behind him. Mulder clicked the safety on and slipped his gun back in its holster. His shirt was sticking to his back, clammy and cold, even though the room was warm. His socks were squishing in his waterlogged shoes. Krycek was chewing on his lip.

"Is the lord and master coming home tonight? I'd like to ask him a few questions, too," asked Mulder.

Krycek ignored the insult and just shook his head. "He's probably halfway to London by now."

"Have this whole place to yourself then?" Mulder asked as he pulled off his trenchcoat and draped it over a nearby chair.

"What are you doing?"

Mulder was loosening his tie, unbuttoning his shirt, wiping his neck. The nervous look on Krycek's face amused him. It seemed that taking off his clothes was more threatening to his former partner than a gun pointed at his chest. Well, well, well. Mulder bent down to untie his shoes and pulled them off along with his drenched socks.

"Are you taking your clothes off?" There was a distinct edge in Krycek's voice, which seemed to have risen half an octave above his usual husky whisper.

"It's a monsoon out there. I just want to dry off a little." He glanced at Krycek and added, "Maybe wait here for a while until the storm eases up." He was pleased to see the frown return to the other man's face. "You don't mind, do you? Driving here was a bitch and the storm is even worse now." He ran the towel over his hair and then started stripping off his tie and shirt. Krycek looked away and walked towards the door. "Where do you think you're going?"

"I'm going downstairs."

"Oh, no, I said I'm not letting you out of my sight and I meant it." Mulder threw off his damp shirt and slipped off his wristwatch and stuffed it into his pants pocket. He began to unbuckle his belt. "You're staying right here."

Krycek turned around, his eyes widening. "Damn it, Mulder, I'm not going to do anything."

Mulder patted his gun holster. "Humor me."

Krycek shrugged and remained where he was, back stiff, head turned towards the windows and the storm outside.

"How long have you had Ridley's stuff here?" Mulder skinned out of his suit pants. The bottoms of the pant legs were dripping wet. He sat there on the bed in his t-shirt and boxers, gun and holster beside him, wiping his feet, and looking at Krycek. He tried to recall the image of the boyish, green agent that he worked with several years ago. Krycek had played his role so well. Mulder wondered what role he was playing now.

"A couple of days."

"Did you look through it? Does it make any sense to you?"

"I'm not a doctor, Mulder." Krycek walked over to the desk and sat down in the chair, still facing away from him. "Yeah, I looked through the notebooks, and the guy was crazy. He really thought he could cook up the Fountain of Youth."

"It worked on John Barnett."

"Ridley used some sort of grafting procedure to grow back Barnett's hand. Salamander cells, of all things. That may be the part that the Colonists are interested in, the cell grafting, but it doesn't make sense. All Ridley wound up with his own personal Frankenstein."

"Barnett was a monster long before that." Mulder pushed the dark memory aside, picked up his gun, got up and walked into the rose-tiled bathroom. He tossed the towel into the empty hamper and pulled another one off the rack. His t-shirt was wet around his neck and down the back. He gave it a moment's consideration, then drew the shirt over his head and off, and walked slowly back into the bedroom. Krycek was looking down at the carpet, brow furrowed. "Do you have a robe or something I could borrow?"

Krycek glanced up at him, mouth opening and then closing in a hard line before he looked away again.

His reaction intrigued Mulder. He slipped his gun back in its holster and tucked it into the pocket of his trenchcoat. He tapped the other pocket, making sure Krycek's gun was still there. He really didn't expect it not to be.

Krycek's head was down, long dark lashes hiding his eyes. "There are some clothes in the closet. They'll probably fit you. Just take whatever you want and leave," he said.

Even though Mulder was almost naked, he felt completely at ease. He might have more than his fair share of emotional hang-ups, but being shy about showing some skin wasn't one of them. It was certainly more comfortable than standing around in soaking wet clothes. But maybe Krycek had a problem with it. It seemed that Mulder's very proximity caused Krycek a definite amount of distress.

Mulder walked up to him, closing the space between them. His eyes narrowed speculatively as he looked down at the bent head. Perhaps it was Krycek's tension that irked him on. He realized he wanted to make Krycek squirm. Hitting him or shooting him, however deserved, didn't seem quite apropos, under the circumstances.

Krycek's hair was a little longer now. Mulder reached out, the back of his hand brushing through the hair above Krycek's left ear. It was silky and thick, falling softly through his fingers. He only had a split second to register the fact before Krycek leaped up from the chair, forcing Mulder a step backward with the movement.

"What the hell are you doing?"

Mulder watched the man's face, the quick flow of emotions, the interplay of anger and fear and pain in his eyes, and then the cold mask settling firmly over his features.

"Don't touch me."

They were standing face to face, so close it reminded Mulder of that time in the cell in Tunguska. Even Krycek's words were almost the same. The gulf was there between them, as always, yet somehow, something was different. Each time, it seemed that Krycek was different, shifting and changing the emotions between them, clouding and muting the crystal clarity of Mulder's rage with each contradictory action that Krycek inevitably made.

"Why not, Krycek? It's not like we haven't touched each other before."

"I'm not in the mood for mind games."

Mulder's lips twitched upward. "So we only play when *you* want to play, is that it?" Mulder didn't wait for an answer. "Well, I'm not playing games, Krycek."

"Like hell you're not."

Mulder grabbed Krycek's arms, the fake one feeling strangely stiff and unyielding in his fingers. He let go, raising one hand slowly towards Krycek's face. Krycek ducked his head and moved away, towards the door. Mulder followed. The look of confusion on Krycek's face made Mulder grin wolfishly. He watched as Krycek changed direction and hurried over to the raincoat slung over the desk chair, fumbling for one of the guns, pulling out Mulder's Sig.

Mulder looked at the gun pointed at his chest, not particularly pleased with the immediate sense of deja vu. No, there wasn't going to be a replay of that little scene again. It was going to be different this time. He gazed into Krycek's wide green eyes and grinned. "I had no idea my boxers were that threatening. You don't think blue is my color?" He glanced down at his aqua blue shorts and back up at Krycek, rubbing idly at his chest.

"I w-want you to get dressed, take the goddamn bag and get out of here."

A boom of thunder sounded above them, then the flash of lightning painting the room a ghostly white. Mulder crossed the distance until he was standing right in front of Krycek, the muzzle of the Sig inches from his bare chest. "You gonna shoot me? Are old habits that hard to break?" Krycek swallowed, teeth chewing at his lower lip. He had a nice mouth, Mulder absently noted, lips full and round, ripe. As an example of male anatomy, as just a body, and extracting the dubious humanity that it housed, Krycek was a very good-looking man. He was suddenly uneasy at the direction his thoughts were taking, but it wasn't enough to override the satisfaction of finally feeling in control of a situation. It was a bizarre situation, of course, standing almost naked in front of Krycek, looking at the gun barrel and knowing Krycek wouldn't shoot him. After all, that would defeat the whole purpose of giving him the Ridley papers. He could hardly do anything with them if he was dead.

Any port in a storm. The phrase danced into his head with a swirl and a dip of reckless abandon. Mulder hadn't had sex with...anyone in a long, long time.

"C'mon, Krycek, put the gun down. You don't want me to bleed all over your elegant host's lovely carpet, now would you?"

The Sig was still pointed at him. Krycek was standing with his back to the chair, the wet trenchcoat pressed against his leg. Mulder took another half-step forward "You said you wanted to help me?" Mulder glanced deliberately at the gun barrel. "That won't help me." He watched as the green eyes squeezed shut for a moment and Krycek let out a long, unhappy sigh.

Mulder reached out slowly, taking hold of Krycek's wrist, pushing the gun down to his side. There was no resistance, and Mulder didn't try to take away the gun. He leaned forward until his lips brushed Krycek's right cheek. His skin was soft and smooth, and smelled of soap, his hair fresh with a hint of evergreen.

"Remember?" Mulder whispered, moving his mouth gently over the warm flesh, lips pressing into a kiss. He heard a sudden catch in Krycek's throat, but the man said nothing, did nothing. Mulder knew this was crazy. Definitely the E Ride to Bedlam. Where was his protective wall of guilt, his trusty anger? Why was it all so muddled, so distant, like an out of body experience. No. It was an out of mind experience. His body seemed to know exactly what it wanted to do as his lips moved inexorably, with sensuous precision, towards Krycek's mouth. He tilted his head, his lips hovering millimeters away, so close their breath mingled, and then Mulder murmured into Krycek's mouth, every word a distinct breath. "It won't make any difference anyway, right?"

Krycek's eyelids closed slowly, a fine tremor running through him. It was the only answer he gave. Mulder shut down his brain completely, and pressed their mouths together. It felt good. Too damn good. He opened Krycek's pliant lips with his tongue, pushing inside. Krycek made another sound, like the barest of whimpers as their kiss deepened.

There was a soft thud as the gun fell out of Krycek's hand onto the thick pile carpet. Mulder was still holding the other man's wrist. He reached out with his free hand, snaking it around Krycek's waist, pulling their bodies together.

The kiss turned into two, then three, then four. Mulder's cock was hard. He felt Krycek's erection, pressing against him through his jeans, as hard as his own. He lifted his head and burrowed his lips against the strong neck, licking a trail up over jaw and cheek, and back over to the full, round lips, wet now from their kisses.

There was something undeniably exhilarating about Krycek's passivity, his...containment, all that intensity banked. As he began moving them backwards, towards the bed, Mulder wished he could see what was going on inside the other man's head.

#######

//God in heaven and hell, help me.// It was an odd thought for a man who had never learned how to pray. Krycek's mouth was covered again, kissed again, the heat of the contact burning right through him. God, he'd let go of the gun. He'd let it drop through his nerveless fingers like a fool.

Mulder's instincts were matchless, as precise as a scalpel. And it was a mistake, a terrible mistake. He should stop it now. Why was he letting Mulder pull him to the bed instead? Why was he letting him push him down into the pillows? Mulder's body settled over him, rubbing against him with sinewy grace, cool fingers stroking his face and hair with unexpected gentleness. A fingertip traced his eyelashes, a warm tongue traced his ear. As Mulder moved to kiss him again, struggled to shift him away, turning his head. He gulped a breath, bracing his hand against Mulder's shoulder. The movements seemed to surprise the other man. Suddenly still, they looked at each other. Krycek tried to keep his voice steady. "Okay, you've played your game. You've had your fun. Enough."

"Oh, but I haven't had my fun yet," cut in Mulder.

"No more, Mulder. You hate me, then hate me, but not like this. I won't be the only one who's hurt here."

"I don't care," whispered Mulder, his eyes dark with emotion.

"You always care, Mulder, sooner or later. That's your albatross."

A silent moment later, Mulder rolled away slightly, sitting back on his heels. Krycek's body immediately regretted the loss but he swallowed hard, forcing himself to go on, to finish it. "I won't apologize for the past or anything I've done, Mulder. I did what I had to do. I had my reasons, and I don't have to tell you a single damn one of them.

"Remember the day we met, you'd already made up your mind about me. I told you then that you didn't even know me."

"I grant you that, Krycek, no truer words were ever spoken."

Krycek just shook his head slowly. "The real joke is that you still don't know me, Mulder. Now, why don't you just be a good boy and get off this bed, get dressed, take Ridley's papers and go."

Mulder listened to him, head angled slightly, face bland except for the heat in his eyes. "You know what insanity is, Krycek? Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results." He looked as if he'd just made up his mind about something, a self-mocking smile curving the edges of his mouth. "This time we're switching from the two-step to the tango."

Krycek's eyes widened in shock as Mulder reached for his belt and began undoing the buckle. He grabbed Mulder's hand, roughly pushing it away, and tried to sit up. "I don't want to have sex with you, Mulder."

Mulder pushed him back down and straddled his thighs, making Krycek grunt from the sudden weight. "Funny, I think I always had the feeling that you did." The rain was still drumming against the windows, but the thunder was moving away.

Krycek was angry now, his voice cold. "Sex doesn't seem like your choice of weapons, Mulder. It's a lousy choice for amateurs, a stupid choice." He let out a breath, too aware of Mulder's scrutiny. There was one sure way to stop it. He looked right into Mulder's eyes. "If you need it so bad, why don't you go and fuck Scully?"

Mulder stared back, unblinking. "Nah, she's too good for me."

But a bad boy is right up your guilt-ridden alley, thought Krycek bitterly. "I bet she lets you know it every single day, too. Not in words, of course, never that. I'm sure she always tries to be kind, to be so very...noble."

Mulder backhanded him across the face, snapping his head sideways. The sound was loud, the sensation burning across his cheek and mouth. Carefully, he turned his head towards Mulder again. "I guess we're back to the two-step. Good for you. Now, why don't you get the hell out of here?" He waited for Mulder to get up. He wanted to be alone. He was always better off alone.

Instead, Mulder leaned forward again, touching their lips together, and murmured against his mouth. "Don't try to use Scully to distract me. You're lousy at it. This is just between you and me." Then Mulder stretched out flat on top of him, storm-cooled flesh and muscle settling over him, smelling like autumn rain, moist lips nuzzling at his throat.

Heaven and hell in one perfect, fucked up package.

Mulder's hands and legs were still cold, or perhaps it was just his own body that was too warm. The lips licking at his throat moved up over his jaw, across his mouth. Mulder lifted his head slightly. "C'mon, kiss me back."

Krycek was clutching the bedspread, the fine silk cloth bunching and twisting in his fist. He let go with a hiss, his hand reaching up towards Mulder's throat. His hand circled damp skin, fingers playing over vulnerable arteries and nerve points.

Mulder just looked into his eyes, smiled, and kissed him again. Krycek's fingers felt for the nerve point behind the ear as Mulder's breath touched his lips, tongue slipping into his mouth.

Mulder made a sound, somewhere between a hum and a moan as he probed Krycek's mouth. Krycek's fingers began to tremble, his hand moving irresistibly into Mulder's soft brown hair, carding through the damp, silky strands as he began, helplessly, hopelessly, to kiss Mulder back.

It was like sinking, drowning, like falling from the sky. It was like having secrets torn away. He was faintly aware of the sound of the rain on the roof and against the windows, of how cold it must be outside. Mulder was saying something to him, unintelligible half phrases between kisses and embraces, between touches that grew more and more intimate. It wasn't until he felt Mulder's hard cock stabbing against his thigh that he realized he was naked from the waist down and that his charcoal shirt was lying in a heap with his pants on the floor. Mulder was pulling at his thin cotton shirt, pushing it up over his chest.

"N-no, leave it," he said hoarsely, tense fingers locking around Mulder's wrist. He shifted away as Mulder let go of his shirt and sat up, straddling his thighs.

His gaze roamed over Mulder's body. Did his own face reflect that same confusion, that need? Mulder was breathing fast, too, chest heaving. His nipples were erect. The reality of it all was outrageous, impossible, seeing Mulder like this. With him. Slowly, his hand reached out to touch the long thick cock.

It was beautiful. Mulder was beautiful. His fingertips brushed along the inside of the shaft, feeling it twitch at the contact. He curled his hand around the base of it. It was hot, silky, hard. The tip glistened. Mulder's eyes closed and he groaned, a lush, teasing sound.

He was holding Mulder's cock in his hand. His mind began to spin again. He pulled back. It shouldn't be happening. He felt Mulder's fingers encircle the base of his cock, moving up and down in a firm stroking motion as if it was something he did every day, Mulder's gaze, rapt and locked on the motion of his own hand. Krycek thought he'd been set on fire.

Then Mulder let go. He slid his hands underneath Krycek's thin green shirt, until his fingertips brushed firm nipples, hands reaching further up, towards his shoulders, the shirt riding up, exposing his stomach, his chest.

"No!" Krycek twisted away.

"I want to see it," Mulder told him tightly, his hands dropping to clutch at Krycek's waist. "It doesn't make any difference."

"No. I can't." Krycek knew his face was already giving too much away, but he said the word anyway. "Please." His mind flashed back to the gulag. He'd said the word to Mulder then. Would it be as worthless now?

The hands at his waist clenched, fingernails digging into him. The pressure increased to the point of pain, then stopped. Suddenly, Mulder's weight draped heavily over him and his mouth was taken again, and again, his head anchored between Mulder's palms. He felt the muscles rippling across Mulder's back. Their bodies moved and shifted, cocks rubbing and pumping roughly against each other, sensations igniting, doubling. Mulder's skin was warm now, almost as hot as his own, the scent of soap and sweat and rain mingling between them, the sound of their ragged breathing and frantic grunts, their noisy moist kisses drowning out the storm.

Krycek tasted blood on his mouth as he came.

When he opened his eyes again, Mulder was smearing a kiss against his cheek, the long lean body bucking against him, more wet heat spilling between them.

The room was blurring. Krycek blinked quickly, but couldn't stop it. Oh, no. Mulder was trembling from his orgasm, sharp breaths puffing against Krycek's neck. Krycek couldn't free his hand, his right side pinned under Mulder's body. He turned his head away into the pillow. He wished they had shut off the lights.

The sound of the wind and the rain seemed louder in the sudden quiet of the room. One of the windows rattled. Krycek tried to press his face deeper into the soft down pillow. He waited for Mulder to move away. He was almost relieved when he felt Mulder's weight shifting.

He flinched as a palm cupped his jaw, trying to turn his face into the light. He kept his eyes squeezed shut, resisting the pressure. A fingertip slowly followed the trail of a teardrop down to his mouth, then moved to dab at the blood on his lower lip. Then, silently, Mulder rolled away to lie beside him on the bed, their bodies no longer touching.

Krycek listened to the wind, and the drumming of the rain against the windowpanes. His hand freed, he thought about wiping the wetness away from his eyes, but it didn't seem to matter any more. The room seemed colder. He was aware of the semen splashed across his belly, the fact that his green shirt was bunched up under his armpits, chest exposed. He drew in a breath, too conscious of the body beside him and began to get up.

A hand gripped his right wrist. "Where are you going?"

"Clean myself up," he answered. His voice was as rough as sandpaper.

"Don't move." Mulder got out of the bed and scooped up the towel he'd tossed over a chair. He turned off the lamp, throwing the room into overlapping shadows, cut only by the soft light shafting in from the hallway and the dim light through the curtains from the street lamps. Mulder wiped the semen from his belly and then got back on the bed and did the same for Krycek. He tugged down on Krycek's shirt, straightening it over his chest and stomach and pulled at the bedcovers. "Shift up for a minute," Mulder told him.

"What are you doing?"

"I want to get under the covers."

"What for?"

"I'm tired."

Krycek swallowed, afraid he couldn't get the words out. "Why don't you just leave, Mulder? The storm's moving off. The rain should be easing up."

"No, it's not." Mulder's voice was as shaky as his. "I want to rest for a while. I don't want to talk and I don't want to think."

"That's right, you're not thinking." Krycek rubbed angrily at his blurring eyes and started to get up again and, once again, Mulder caught him by the arm and pulled him back down. "What the hell's wrong with you? Let me go."

"I told you before I'm not letting you out of my sight. You're staying right here. Now, get under the blanket."

Krycek stared at him in disbelief. The faint chimes of the grandfather clock downstairs sounded midnight. Mulder's hand still gripped his right forearm. Krycek couldn't see his expression clearly in the darkness, just the sharp glimmer of his eyes. Sighing, he settled against the pillows. "I don't understand you."

"Shut up." Mulder let go of his arm, and tugged the covers over them both.

It was surreal. Krycek lay on his back, forcing himself into stillness. Inside, he was shaking, his body still reverberating from the assault of sensations while his mind mercilessly imprinted each and every one on his memory. He could feel Mulder turning to lie on his side, facing him. The streetlamps outside cast a distorted reflection of the windows on the ceiling, magnifying the liquid movement of rain against the panes. It looked as if the house was melting over them.

He could hear his father's voice, whispering to him from the past, from a time when there had been many possibilities. "Be careful what you wish for, Alex." The deep, accented voice had been uncharacteristically thick with emotion. "A man's dreams will trap him more surely than any enemy." Krycek remembered it very clearly now. It had been one of the few, genuine conversations between them, a talk about consequences and regrets. His father had seemed so incomprehensible to him then. So...weak.

Like father, like son. Sometimes, it was true. He drew in a breath and gave in to the urge to turn his head towards Mulder. He met a steady, unblinking stare. Slowly, Krycek raised his hand and brushed the back of it along the side of Mulder's face. He felt the strands of silky hair falling across the high forehead, felt the soft, velvet skin, the beginnings of stubble across the jaw. The backs of his fingers moved over Mulder's lips in a reluctant caress before drawing away. Mulder closed his eyes but he didn't move.

Krycek looked back up at the moving patterns on the ceiling. His life was like that, he thought, a mere reflection of its original reality, twisted by shadow and light into something only vaguely recognizable, even to him. He certainly hadn't bargained on what meeting Mulder...knowing Mulder, would do to him. Hadn't foreseen how it would affect him. Mark him. Now, it was too late. He couldn't control Mulder in any way. That realization was bad enough and not even particularly new, but now he had to face the fact that he couldn't control his own feelings either. He couldn't even find the strength, the fucking common sense, to stand up and walk the fifteen feet to the door and out of this room.

Whatever happened from here on out, even with the prospect of a cataclysmic Alien War ahead of them, Krycek knew it would be Mulder who would be the life, or death, of him.

All the same, when he closed his eyes, he succumbed to his survivor's instincts and fought against the dreams, and his future visions.

#######

Mulder opened his eyes and stared at Krycek's profile, at the fan of spiky, long lashes against the pale skin, pale even in the shadows.

He felt a little like throwing up. He felt even more like putting his arms around Krycek and rolling on top of him again. It seemed the tango was better than the two-step after all.

Krycek was right. He should have left. Even as he thought it, he was reaching out to encircle Krycek's waist. He pulled his hand back at the last second.

If only Krycek hadn't turned human on him. An emotionally vulnerable Alex Krycek was not something Mulder had ever expected to see again. It threw him off. It was too close to Mulder's first impression of him than to the reality he had become. If it was an act, it was a damn good one.

Mulder folded his hand under his own ribcage and sighed. The drumming rain had turned into a softer patter against the windows. It was easier to hear the wind. His eyes followed the edge of Krycek's profile from his hair down to his throat. He wondered what Krycek's amputated arm looked like. He wondered what Ridley's papers could reveal, and how long he could keep them secret. And how he could convince Scully to keep it under wraps. He wondered why just rubbing his cock against Krycek's could make him feel so...alive. Why had it felt so...right?

He shivered then, the rain's chill (he assumed) finally seeping into his bones despite the covers. Krycek's body radiated heat. There was no point in being uncomfortable, was there? Mulder moved his arm again and slid it around Krycek's waist, easing closer until their bodies touched. Yes, that was better. Warmer.

Krycek never moved, didn't even open his eyes, but Mulder knew he was awake. He watched Krycek's Adam's apple bob slightly as he swallowed. Shifting a little, Mulder's groin settled against the other man's hip. He watched Krycek's lips tighten suddenly, and slowly relax, as if with conscious effort. The wind rattled one of the windows, making a faint, keening sound.

His body was tingling, somewhere between satisfaction and hunger. The warmth felt good. He'd just rest for a few minutes, then drive over the Lone Gunmen office. They were used to having him pop up on their doorstep at odd hours. Yeah, that's what he'd do. He'd just close his eyes and rest for a minute.

When Mulder opened his eyes again, he felt like he was drifting out of a cocooning dream. A moment's disorientation turned to shock at the feel of a body against him. *Krycek*. Mulder's face was burrowed against his neck and his body was partially draped over Krycek's right side, one leg nestled between the other man's thighs, an arm cradling his chest. Instantly awake, Mulder pulled away with a reluctance he couldn't have imagined. Krycek's eyes were open, staring up at the ceiling.

It was very quiet. Glancing at the windows, it looked as if the rain had stopped. "What time is it?"

"The clock is on your side."

Mulder shifted and peered at the gold antique clock on the end table. 5:25. "That can't be right." Insomnia rarely let him sleep more than a couple of hours at a time, unless he was drugged or totally exhausted. He didn't feel drugged, and he wasn't tired either. In fact, he felt remarkably rested. "That can't be the right time," he said again.

"You slept most of the night. The storm's over. Why don't you leave now, Mulder."

The ice in the husky voice made Mulder turn back towards Krycek, asking the first question that popped into his head. "Did you sleep?"

Silence.

"Krycek?"

"Just leave, Mulder."

He frowned at the stony silhouette beside him. He wondered why Krycek hadn't just left the room. Or taken his gun. Or...any number of possibilities. Mulder would've woken up. He was sure of that. Maybe that was it. Or maybe Krycek had fallen asleep, too. He just happened to be the kind of guy who slept without moving a muscle. Mulder smirked into the dimness. He reached out and put his hand over Krycek's cock. It was half-hard and pulsed against his palm. Krycek let out a hiss and flinched.

"Relax, Krycek," he said with more nonchalance than he felt, curling his fingers around the lengthening column of flesh. His stomach suddenly felt like the Bulls were running a full court press in it. His erection was even livelier.

He wished he had an off switch on his brain, or his cock. It seemed they weren't communicating very well at the moment, and both wanted his immediate attention. Apparently, his penis still had the edge. It would be reassuring to blame it on his pathetically solitary sex life, except he knew better. There were two real driving forces in his life. The first was to find the Truth, the second was to avoid boredom at all costs. The X-files gave him the perfect vehicle for both. And, in his own flawed and dangerous way, Alex Krycek did the same.

The only drawback was that, with Krycek, Mulder knew he'd probably hate himself for it later. His brain told him that, his gut told him that. His cock, however, was insistently guilt-free.

He stroked Krycek's erection, from base to tip and back again. His index finger played over the wet, glistening slit in a teasing zigzag. He felt it strain, grow even harder.

Krycek's fingers locked around his wrist. "Why?"

A dozen different answers flashed before him, each containing bits of truth and deception. He chose the one he could live with. "It's only sex." He paused, squeezed the hot flesh pulsing in his hand, and smiled. "It doesn't mean anything." He could see Krycek's eyes, bright against the shadows. "When I walk out of here, it'll mean even less."

The vice-like grip eased and Krycek's hand fell away from his wrist. Mulder watched Krycek's face through the shadows as he drew in a long, deep breath and exhaled it as if it pained him, and then, just as slowly, nodded his head. Krycek raised his hand again and hooked it around Mulder's neck, bringing their heads together, kissing Mulder with slow, almost tender deliberation.

The greater the intimacy, the greater the danger, physical and emotional. Still, Mulder wished for more. He wished Krycek would suck his cock. He wanted to feel that mouth on him. He wanted even more than that, but he knew it would be insane.

He had the sudden urge to rip Krycek's stupid shirt off and expose that fake arm, expose Alex Krycek completely. He rose to his knees and straddled Krycek's chest, his erection jutting out, his balls rubbing against the warm, green cotton. Krycek's nipples were hard peaks against the material of his shirt. Mulder massaged them through the thin cloth with his fingertips. Krycek's breathing quickened, a tiny moan escaping. Mulder shifted a little, taking more weight on his knees. His cock was inches from Krycek's lips. Mulder wanted...oh, he wanted... Waited.

Krycek turned his head away slightly, eyes still bright in the dimness. Mulder reached behind him, took hold of Krycek's erection and stroked it firmly, reveling in the narcissistic thrill of touching another man's penis, velvet hard and hot in his hand. Krycek began to squirm. Mulder stopped and inched forward until the tip of his cock nudged the side of Krycek's face. Mulder rubbed his cock back and forth along the edge of the lightly stubbled jaw, feeling an erotic charge at the rough contact against his sensitive flesh. He bit down on his lip to keep from begging Krycek. His body was doing enough of that already. His cock hovered like a hungry snake in front of Krycek's mouth. Yeah, the cobra before the mongoose. If he weren't aching so badly, Mulder would've laughed.

He almost did cry out when he felt the first touch of Krycek's lips against the head of his cock. The touch was tentative, awkward, Krycek's mouth firmly shut as his lips simply...pressed against hard flesh. Mulder fought back the urge to thrust. //Open your mouth. Take me. Lick me with your tongue. Suck me with that silky, hot mouth. I want to know how your feel. I want to know.// He didn't have to say the words. They were written across ever cell of his body.

Intense green eyes looked up at him, blinking, then slowly, very slowly, Krycek opened his mouth. Mulder thought the soft, round lips were actually trembling. It was almost as if Krycek hadn't sucked a man's dick before. Mulder couldn't see how that could be true. It seemed like Krycek would be as adept at using sex, in any form, as he was at using anything and anyone else in his sorry life. To think of Krycek as a novice in anything was...unsettling. Once again, Krycek was not being what he was supposed to be.

Impatient, Mulder pushed his cock in a little too fast. Felt the sudden scrape of teeth. "Hey!" He pulled out quickly as Krycek half-wheezed, half-coughed. "Haven't you ever sucked cock, Krycek?" he asked through quick breaths.

"Have you?" came the whispered reply.

He hadn't, but that wasn't the point here, was it? "You've got a pretty mouth." Where had that come from, he wondered suddenly. Well, after all, it was true. He shifted to nudge Krycek's lips again.

Krycek's long fingers moved to touch his balls, cupping the sacs in his palm, massaging them lightly as if they were a strange, new discovery. Soft lips formed a kiss against the tip of his cock, then opened to take him in. A tongue licked shyly around the head.

It was torture. Exquisite torture. Mulder reached out and caressed the side of Krycek's face and throat with his hands. He watched as Krycek began to suck. He put his fingers near the joining of mouth and cock, feeling himself move slowly in and out of that warm, wet haven. He tried to let Krycek set the pace, but as that tongue and mouth pleasured him, he felt his tenuous control slipping. He began to thrust, watching Krycek's face, his eyes, as the sensations pulled him under.

Heat and lightning and fire rushed through him, into his cock. He threw his head back and came in Krycek's mouth.

With his heart still pounding in his ears, he opened his eyes and realized he had half-collapsed across Krycek's chest. He lifted himself up and eased himself off a little, suddenly aware that Krycek was coughing. He was trying to free his hand, trapped under Mulder's weight. Mulder shifted again and stared at the shiny trail of semen on his lips and the droplets across his chin as Krycek finally caught his breath, long fingers delicately touching his own mouth, touching the evidence of Mulder's orgasm, his green eyes wide with a kind of quiet wonder.

Mulder pulled the hand away and took Krycek's mouth in a deep kiss. He trailed his arm over Krycek's chest, stomach, groin and took hold of Krycek's straining erection, began pumping it in a firm, quickening rhythm.

He tasted himself in Krycek's mouth, tongue probing deep and slow, their mouths locked, moving and melding together. He couldn't get close enough.

Krycek cried out as he came, the sound vibrating into Mulder's throat. Krycek's body shuddered against him, his orgasm spilling over Mulder's hand. Mulder kept kissing him, feeling every trembling breath, every little moan and whimper as Krycek slowly returned to himself. It felt almost as good as coming himself . So good, it scared him.

Mulder broke away reluctantly, brought his hand up, looked intently at the pearly fluid smeared across his palm and fingers. The sight was curiously compelling. Before he knew it, he was licking it from his skin. They tasted alike, he realized. How strange that it didn't surprise him. He licked off some more and then bent to kiss Krycek again, letting him taste himself. He felt Krycek's arm curl around him, tightening their embrace, fingers running through his hair, clutching at his hair.

A moment later, Krycek shoved him away with a breathless cry. Thrown back against the pillows, Mulder stared in bewilderment as Krycek stumbled out of the bed, grabbed up some of his clothes from the floor and raced into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

Mulder sat up awkwardly. Krycek's bittersweet taste, and his own, lingered in his mouth. The bed smelled of sex. His hand was sticky. He suddenly felt cold. He fell back against the pillows again and threw his arm across his eyes. "Oh, god, what the hell am I doing? What the hell have I done?" he whispered.

When he heard the door open sometime later, he looked up and squinted as the light from the bathroom shafted across the bed. Krycek stood in the doorway. He'd put on his pants and a dark gray sweatshirt that Mulder had seen hanging on a hook in the bathroom. Mulder sat up as the other man walked slowly into the room, and turned on one of the lamps.

They looked at each other silently, awkwardly. Krycek turned away first and walked to the bureau. Mulder noticed that he was barefoot. Even his feet looked good. Krycek rummaged through a drawer, pulled something black out and threw it on the bed.

"Socks. The rest of your clothes aren't that wet. You have to leave, Mulder. Now." He walked over to the desk, bent and picked up Mulder's Sig and put it in the canvas bag. Then he pulled his own gun out of Mulder's trenchcoat pocket. He finally looked at Mulder, the gun dangling at his side. His mouth looked swollen. From the kissing. His eyes betrayed the cool, unyielding expression on his face. They were red-rimmed and... defenseless.

Mulder swallowed hard and got out of bed, moving mechanically, picking up his clothes, throwing them on quickly. He pulled on the black socks. He stuffed his tie into jacket pocket, barely buttoned his shirt. His shoes were still wet, but he it didn't matter.

They didn't say a word to each other. The tension hung thick in the air between them. Mulder heard a soft thunk. Krycek had dropped his gun on the desk blotter. He held the canvas bag out to Mulder who took it silently. Their fingers brushed and Krycek jerked his hand back.

Mulder clutched the handle of the canvas bag and paused. Krycek was looking at the top of the desk, at his gun, but his eyes seemed to be staring at something much, much farther away, at his ultimate fate, perhaps.

Mulder couldn't think of anything to say. 'Thanks for the stolen information. I hope it doesn't screw me over. Oh, by the way, I really enjoyed the humping and blowjob. Really. Let's do it again soon because if made me feel--. It made me feel.'

No. No, there was nothing to say. Krycek knew it, too. Mulder realized from the painful tug and pull inside him at that very moment that it would be best if they never saw each other again.

Mulder started to turn towards the door and paused again, sighing. He walked the few steps to Krycek, who looked up at him in surprise. Mulder leaned forward and brushed their lips together. It was a gentle, sad kiss that tasted of lost dreams. When he pulled away, he thought, at the last, he had sensed a small, defiant hope in it as well. He would've been sure had he seen it in Krycek's eyes, but Krycek kept his eyes closed. There was nothing to see except the dark sweep of his lashes. Mulder stared at every feature of the closed face and wondered, yet again, what he and Krycek were to each other.

Krycek's eyes were still closed as Mulder turned and walked out of the room. He went down the stairs quickly, feeling suddenly, oddly, as if he was running away, as if he had to run or be trapped forever. He closed the front door behind him with a swift click. The autumn morning chill wrapped around him. The sky was a deep blue-gray. The night was dying. It would be dawn soon. There was nothing left of the storm but a clean, cold scent and a fine mist. Dead leaves littered the street in soggy clumps. Mulder's breath frosted in the air as he unlocked the car door and tossed the canvas bag on the floor of the passenger seat. He started to get in, was stopped by an irresistible need to turn and look up at the bedroom windows. A dark shadow was visible behind the gauzy white curtains. Mulder felt that same, curious tug and pull, that sharp, fragile pain in his chest that was not at all physical. His throat felt constricted. He tore his eyes away from the window with effort, got into his car, and drove away.

#######

In a car parked behind several other cars further along the tree-lined street, a man lowered his high-powered binoculars and jotted something down in a small notebook. As Mulder's sedan drove away, he raised the binoculars again and focused on the bedroom window. The indistinct shadow behind the curtains remained unmoving long after Mulder's car disappeared around the corner. For a moment, the man with the binoculars was afraid that he might have been spotted. He certainly didn't want to be caught, certainly not by the shadow in that window. He knew it would be a mistake he would never outlive. But then, slowly, the shadow moved away. The man lowered his binoculars and waited, just to be sure. He made another short entry in his notebook, adding the time. He waited a little longer until the sky began to turn gray. Only then did he start his car and drive away, sedately, in the opposite direction.

#######

In Somerset, England, the late afternoon sun was shining weakly through a thickening bank of clouds. The Well-Manicured Man glanced at his Rolex and walked into his study. His grandchildren would be home soon and he did not want to deal with any more business that day. His operative was told to call either early that morning or now, as appropriate. As appropriate. Harris hadn't called in the morning. It was a good sign.

He sat behind his desk and sifted through some papers. Harris would call momentarily. Either that or he was not as careful as he should have been. In which case, he would be dead. That would be something of an inconvenience. He was considering his options given that possibility when the phone began to ring. He touched the knot of his silk tie, a hint of a smile on his lips, and picked up the receiver.

"Yes?"

"Harris, sir."

"Please report." The Well-Manicured Man listened as Harris gave him the kind of detailed report he expected. He was told the time of Mulder's arrival at the Arlington house, his hesitation, not ringing the bell or knocking, the gun visible in Krycek's waistband when he opened the door.

There were no listening devices in the house; he didn't allow them in any of his personal properties. In any case, Krycek would have found them. He was an extremely suspicious and distrustful young man, which was sometimes quite useful. He was the quintessential survivor.

Harris reported on the number of times he had seen a shadow or two cross before the upstairs window. The bedroom window. He told him when the light went out in that window and when it went on again. Most interesting was Mulder's departure, close to dawn. He carried the canvas bag, as expected, but he was not dressed the same. His tie was missing, his shirt partially unbuttoned. Harris told him how Mulder had stood staring up at the shadow in the window. These were small details. Important, revealing details.

"Shall I continue surveillance on the house, sir?"

The Well-Manicured Man smiled. "That will not be necessary. Destroy any of your notes and take the next plane to London. Contact me when you arrive. I have some other matters I need you to take care of here."

"Yes, sir." The line clicked off.

That's what he liked best about Harris. The man never questioned orders, never asked about the purpose of an assignment. He was a highly efficient, reliable drone. He was not in Krycek's class, but he was certainly infinitely easier to manage. The Well-Manicured Man hoped that would not change. He was growing very weary of the necessity of death.

He rose and walked to the window, staring out at the gardens through the beveled diamond panes. Some of the trees were almost bare, their remaining leaves falling, one by one, in the cool autumn breeze. Little pools of red and gold dotted the crisp mown grass where they fell. Another season was passing, and soon another year would be gone. He was running out of time, and there was still so much to do. The game was still in play. He thought about his grandchildren and a future that seemed to grow only bleaker with each passing day.

The Well-Manicured Man considered his underling's report. Reviewed those telling details once again. It seemed that his suspicions were correct. There was something between Krycek and Mulder. Something beyond the hostility and distrust. Something far more complicated, perhaps terribly intimate and inescapable. He certainly hoped so. He wanted that alliance forged, on whatever terms.

Mulder was a strong man, much stronger than the Syndicate had ever expected him to be. His own father had underestimated him, which in retrospective, did not particularly surprise the Well-Manicured Man. But Mulder still had his one critical weakness: Scully. As formidable as the two were together, they were also each other's greatest vulnerability. That was a fact the Syndicate was now willing to exploit to the maximum degree.

The Well Manicured Man watched a leaf tremble in the wind, sever from its branch and spiral slowly to the ground. He wondered if he would see another autumn and shivered with a sudden chill.

He needed Mulder. Needed him to find and use the truth about the Colonists, and fight the very real prospect of a war that humankind could not possibly win. For all his tortured self-doubts, Mulder was a True Believer. Scully, as gifted as she was, would never be. She would never have that particular brand of faith.

He needed Krycek. Needed a renegade who could break all the rules. Krycek was an outlaw, but he was a True Believer, too. Had been even before the Syndicate had claimed him. Strangely enough, Krycek had not turned out to be what the Syndicate had expected either. For all his posing, Krycek, like Mulder, belonged to no one but himself. In yet another example of life's peculiar ironies, they were mirror images of each other, Krycek shaped by a nurtured darkness, and Mulder by his own harsh light. Instead of being pawns in one game, they had turned themselves into wild cards in a game of their own making.

It would be a volatile alliance, at best. For those two young men, the cost could be very high, in ways neither of them could now imagine. For every choice, one must pay the price, good or bad. The old man knew that lesson all too well.

The sound of approaching voices drifted in from the hallway. His daughter and grandchildren had come home. The Well-Manicured Man sighed. So little time, and so many variables. He would do what he could, for as long as he was able. He had placed his wild cards on the board. Perhaps that would be enough.

He turned away from window and the darkening afternoon sky, and walked toward the sound of children's laughter.

END

 

* * *

 

PLAYERS by Courtney Gray  
  
(Part 3 in the "How to Throw A Curve Ball" series.)  
Spoilers: Set sometime between The Red & the Black and The End.

* * *

Mulder looked on as the attendant pulled a white sheet over the body. His cellphone began to beep.

"Mulder."

"Mulder, it's me. I was expecting to hear from you hours ago."

"Sorry, Scully, I've been checking something out."

"I tried calling you in the office. I thought you were working on those reports for Skinner. I messengered my case notes and the forensics data to you. They should've been delivered by 1:00 today."

"Yeah, well, I got a call from Langly this morning. A friend of his works at the City Morgue and they've had a couple of interesting clients coming into the shop this week."

"Clients, Mulder?"

"Stiffs, Scully."

"You're in the morgue."

"Natch."

A soft, familiar sigh flowed through the phone. "Okay, who are you talking about and what's so interesting about them?"

"Two indigent white males, one middle-aged wino and a junkie in his 20s. First one was brought in two days ago. Second one was brought in last night. Cause of death has been listed as alcohol and drug related. The bodies were found in two different alleyways in the less than stellar part of the downtown area."

"Mulder, get to it."

He grinned into the phone. "Their eyes were coated in a black, inky substance." He paused, waiting.

"Mulder, you're not suggesting--"

He grinned again. "We're on the same wavelength, Scully. I can feel the vibes."

"I know what you're thinking, Mulder, but not every physical irregularity is extraterrestrial in origin. Have they examined the eye fluid? Are there any other anomalies on the bodies? What kind of lab work are they running?"

"Scully, we're talking about a couple of society's throwaways here, two homeless bums with no money, and no one interested in their extreme mortality. But, yes, they already ran a lab check on the eye substance." He stopped as two gurneys topped with body bags rolled by.

"And?" prompted Scully.

"Luckily for the M.E.'s staff, it was fifty weight diesel oil. Plain old diesel oil. Sound familiar? The kicker is that the black fluid looks inert,frozen, as dead as the bodies. Bottom line, the coroner's staff don't care how funny the eyes look or how the oil got there, their workload is stacking up even as we speak. One wino and one heroin addict have been officially written up and written off."

"But you think it's an X-file, that's it's connected to--" She let the sentence hang.

"C'mon, Scully, don't you?"

"You're the one who just told me it was plain old diesel oil, Mulder. I grant you, it's peculiar, but beyond that, it doesn't seem as if there's anything more to go on. Not to mention the small detail that you shouldn't be down there in the first place."

Mulder's eyes rolled skyward. "So, how's your ankle?"

She gave him another small sigh at the change of topic, but didn't press him. "The swelling is finally going down. I have to keep it elevated for another day or so."

"Well, you know, that's what happens when you insist on running in those Wilt-the-Stilt heels--"

"Shut up, Mulder."

"So, how much longer are you going to be out?"

"I told Skinner I'd be back at work next week."

"That long, huh? Too bad. Looking down at a cold morgue slab just isn't the same without you."

He could hear the answering smile in her voice. "You really know how to flatter a person, Mulder. Actually, I'm enjoying the rest. I might finally have a chance to finish that monograph, now that the reports are out of the way."

"Well, I may have to call you for sound, scientific advice as I muddle through this one."

"There's always a first time for everything, but it seems like there's not much to muddle with anyway. And, Skinner's expecting those reports by the end of the week. He won't be happy if he finds out you're spending your afternoons in cold storage."

"I figure I'll keep better."

"You know what I mean, Mulder. The X-Files is under enough scrutiny as it is right now."

"I don't make a point of wasting my time, Scully."

"I just want you to be careful."

"Aren't I always?"

"No, as a matter of fact, you're not."

He chuckled. It was good just to hear her voice. Even though she couldn't see him, he saluted his cellphone. "Yes, ma'am, I'll be careful." He clicked off the line, his smile fading. He wished she'd been able to join him. She could've done the autopsies, checked the analyses with her characteristic brand of thoroughness. Maybe pick up on something the M.E. had overlooked.

He chewed absently at his lower lip as his mind skipped to the Ridley papers. He'd had the stuff for weeks but he still hadn't told Scully about it. The Lone Gunmen were fascinated with the material. They were already hip-deep in research, tapping their sources, legitimate and otherwise, for information, focusing on Ridley's cell grafting experiments. Mulder wanted to bring Scully into it, but he knew it would mean forcing her to compromise her professional ethics. Again. For Scully, going by the book actually meant something. Well, certainly more than it meant to him. He knew she wouldn't blithely agree to keeping that kind of information secret and she certainly wouldn't approve of possibly jeopardizing the Lone Gunmen's safety by involving them instead of the Bureau.

The worst part would be trying to explain how he came by the Ridley material in the first place. He told the Gunmen he'd received it from an informant. Well, loosely, that was true. Scully, however, would definitely expect more of an explanation than that if he expected her to go along with him. And that would mean telling her about Krycek.

"Agent Mulder, are you finished here?"

He turned and nodded at the freckle-faced attendant. "Yes. Thanks for your help. Uh, what's the procedure here with the bodies?"

The towhead shrugged his thin shoulders. "If no claims are made for the bodies within ten days, they're released for burial or cremation at City expense." The kid leaned towards him conspiratorially. "Pretty weird, the eyes, huh? Do you think they were aliens in disguise? Langly said you'd be able to tell."

Mulder shook his head. "I don't think so."

"So, what's with their eyes then? I mean, I've seen some weird stuff on a few of the bodies that come in here, you know, especially the druggies, but I've never seen anything like that."

"There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio."

The kid stared at him blankly for a moment, then gave him a weak giggle. "Oh, yeah. Like that. Uh, does the other guy work with you, too? I really didn't get a good look at his badge. Flashed it pretty quick."

"Other guy?"

"Yeah, the dude that showed up to see the first body. That's when I noticed the eyes. I just got on shift when he showed up. It wasn't my shift, you know. I don't like the night shift but there's always someone out sick. I figured I could use the overtime. I just came on duty and there he was, staring at the stiff. Come to think of it, I don't know how he got in here because we don't allow visitors down here unescorted, not even the cops. I asked him what he was doing here and he flashed the badge. Looked like FBI but I didn't really see it close." He looked down, a flush to his face. "I should've asked to see it again, I guess, but he, well, I didn't want to annoy him, you know."

"What did he look like?"

Freckles bunched across the attendant's forehead as he frowned. "Well, he was about as tall as you, I guess. Dark hair. Late twenties, early thirties maybe." The kid smiled. "Oh, yeah, he had a cool leather jacket on. Yeah. Black. He was wearing black. Undercover or something, I figured." His face managed to grow a shade redder. "He was good looking, I suppose. Oh, he had nice eyes, green. Kinda cold though."

Mulder felt the air disappear from his lungs. He had to draw a long breath before he could respond. "What did he say?"

"Um, he said he was checking out some information on a missing person's case. I asked him if the stiff was the guy he was looking for, but he said 'no.' Then he just left." He glanced at the white sheet. "That's when I went over to the body and saw that the eyes were open, saw that weird black stuff. I didn't call Langly until the second dead guy turned up looking the same way. Maybe I should've called right away?"

Mulder stared intently at a particle of space above the morgue drawer.

"Uh, Agent Mulder?"

Mulder blinked away a storm of thoughts and memories. He bit down on his lip as he pulled out his notepad. "I want to double-check the addresses where those bodies were found. Can we go back and look at those record sheets again?"

The attendant nodded. "Oh. Sure. Is this an official FBI case now?" he asked with an expectant grin.

"If another body turns up in the same condition, I want you to notify me right away. At the moment, though, I just want to get a few more details."

"Oh." The kid looked disappointed as he led Mulder towards the elevators and the Morgue offices. Mulder barely noticed, his own thoughts elsewhere.

*********

The guest list was sprinkled with corporate bigwigs, Old Money, and several of the Beltway's most influential politicians. They chatted and laughed, stopping from time to time to lift a crystal flute of Dom Perignon from a passing silver tray. They only paused to look at the artwork when there was a lull in the conversation. This was a charity event, after all, and the gallery was merely the setting. To exude benevolence and rub mutually influential shoulders was the order of the day.

Alex Krycek tugged again at the left sleeve of his Armani tux and slowly scanned the room. He was uncomfortable. Glittering Washington soirees were hardly his usual stomping grounds and tuxedos weren't exactly his preferred mode of dress. He hadn't worn one in years, and certainly not one that was perfectly tailored for him. The frequent interested glances he was getting just made him uneasy. He didn't like to be noticed. Not any more. Even so, the real source of his discomfort came from not knowing exactly why he was there in the first place.

He looked around again, spotting a couple of the Syndicate's finest. With a twinge of distaste, he saw, once again, how easily they blended in with the elite crowd, like sharks in familiar waters. He hadn't seen his elegant patron yet. Since this was the old man's party, Krycek knew he had to be around somewhere.

"Champagne, sir?" The waiter lifted his tray towards him, the young man's eyes openly raking him up and down. Krycek noticed that the waiter's eyes were an uncomfortably familiar shade of hazel. Feeling the heat rising to his face, he took a crystal flute and turned away.

He caught sight of his enigmatic host emerging from one of the anterooms, still in conversation with another man, also gray-haired and distinguished. Krycek stared, trying to place the man's face. Yes. Senator Richard Matheson. Well, well, now that was...interesting. He watched as a woman, dripping in diamonds, whisked the Senator away to join a small clique of Society's Best. His patron also looked on, a thin smile on his lips.

Krycek started to make his way slowly towards the old man. Suddenly, he felt an arm on his shoulder.

"I'm surprised to see you here. Hardly your element, is it, Alex?"

Krycek turned and raised his glass in a small salute towards the First Elder of the Syndicate. He took a leisurely sip before replying. "I'm very adaptable, a family trait, as you know. This is excellent champagne, by the way. Have you tried some?" He smiled with as much charm as he could fake.

"What are you doing here?"

Krycek nodded towards their elegant host. "Why, I was invited, of course."

The First Elder looked him up and down with a calculating stare. "You should be very careful, Alex."

He raised his glass and took another sip. "Words to live by."

"Then see that you do." The flicker of contempt in the First Elder's eyes was irritating in its familiarity. The big man turned his back and walked away as Krycek started to reply.

"Fucking arrogant asshole," muttered Krycek under his breath. One day, he thought to himself, one day.

When he finally worked his way through the crowd and approached the Well-Manicured Man, he had a fresh glass of champagne in his hand.

The old man acknowledged him with a polite nod. "Enjoying the party, Alex?"

"I'd enjoy it more if I knew why I was here."

"To learn to hide in plain sight, dear boy. To blend into the game. To make the proper contacts. My colleagues are less than enthusiastic to have you back in our midst. You need to prove yourself again. Show them that you can move in the same circles, in any circles, that you can do whatever is necessary. That you are, indeed, a player."

Krycek frowned as several distinguished types wandered up and began chatting with their host. The old man replied graciously, introducing Krycek as his "associate" and then smoothly extricating them both from the group and steering them towards a nearby alcove.

"The party is winding down, fortunately. These charity events can be tiresome, but they're important in their own way. There is a great deal of power in this room, Alex."

Krycek glanced around at the crowd. "What difference does it make? Their power won't help them. The Colonists don't care."

"Nothing's ever that simple, my boy. There are many players in the game. Any one of them can affect the outcome in ways we might not have anticipated." The somber look on the old man's face brooked no argument.

"Someone like Senator Matheson, you mean? I saw you talking with him. I didn't know he was part of the Syndicate."

"He's not."

"Yet?" finished Krycek.

The old man smiled. "Richard has been an acquaintance of mine for many years. He's an astute politician, a consummate fence sitter. We've managed to be of some assistance to one another, in our respective areas, over the years. He has remained his own man, more or less."

Krycek couldn't help but grin. "I admire your refined way of being uninformative."

The old man's smile remained. "It's a talent worth cultivating, my boy. I strongly suggest that you add it to your repertoire."

"I do all right."

"Indeed you do." He gazed at the milling guests. "Time to mingle, Alex. Come along, I'll introduce you to the Senator."

"What about that matter you wanted to discuss? I thought it was important."

"Have there been any further developments?"

"Not that I know of."

"Then it will keep until later, when the party is over."

Krycek felt the old man's arm on his elbow, steering him back into the diamond-strewn, shark infested waters.

*

Some time later, he was behind the steering wheel of a sleek black Mercedes, driving out of the District, his host sitting beside him in the passenger seat.

"Where are we going?"

"The Arlington house. I'd rather stay in Charlottesville but it's too long a drive. I'll go there tomorrow."

Krycek bit down on his lip as he eased the car into traffic.

"You aren't staying there anymore, are you, Alex? I had thought it would be rather convenient for you, and I so rarely use it." He could feel the old man's eyes on his face.

"It seemed smarter to leave after I met Mulder there."

There was a beat of silence and he still felt those sharp eyes watching him. "Agent Mulder was clearly made aware of the futility of pursuing criminal charges against you. He knows he would find no evidence. It's quite safe for you to remain in the house, Alex."

"I just don't think it's a good idea."

"It's been several weeks since your meeting with Agent Mulder."

"Yes."

"You haven't met with him since then?"

"No, of course not," replied Krycek, immediately regretting the noticeable edge in his voice.

The old man slowly turned his gaze towards the road. "I wonder if he's learned anything from the Ridley papers." He was silent for a moment. "I think you should stay at the house, Alex."

"Is that an order?"

"Consider it an emphatic request. If nothing else, I would think the house would be far more comfortable than your usual accommodations. It would certainly be easier for me to contact you. With the Group's insistence in finding and returning our former colleague to the fold as soon as possible, you'll need to be more accessible."

Krycek felt his troubling emotions seesawing from Mulder to the Smoker. For vastly different reasons, he didn't want to see either man again.

"Did you see the bodies?"

Krycek was almost glad at the old man's change of subject. "I, uh, saw one at the morgue," he replied. "You said there might be another. I only saw the one."

"And?"

"Just as you described; it died along with the body. The traces in the eyes were inert. I assume if there was another victim, the same thing happened to that poor bastard." Nightmare images of swirling black oil flickered through his mind. As always, he shut them out quickly. "It might get a little awkward if more dead bodies start popping up in back alleys. The Colonists could hardly be pleased with the situation."

"The hybridization experiments have been escalated. Too many mistakes have been made. I was informed that two of the subjects were inadvertently released from one of the new facilities. That problem has been corrected. No more bodies will be found."

"What other mistakes are we dealing with here?"

The old man sighed at his question."That is what our old colleague will need to tend to. The Colonists have expressed their preference that he manage certain of their operations. We are expanding our efforts to locate him. As soon as he is found, you will go in and bring him back."

"Why me?"

"To prove your loyalty to the Syndicate...and the Colonists. The others must be convinced of your commitment to the Project." Krycek could hear the cool amusement in the cultured voice as the old man continued. "They know how you feel about our missing associate. What better test to prove your allegiance than for you to bring him back to us, alive and unharmed."

"I don't play 'lackey' very well."

"Then you had better learn, and quickly. There is far more at stake here than your pride."

Krycek drew in a slow, calming breath. He lowered the window a little and welcomed the crisp breeze that brushed his face. The night was clear and chilly, the sky dotted with sharp winter stars. He signaled as they reached the Arlington exit. Both men were silent for the remainder of the ride.

************

Mulder threw his trenchcoat over a chair and glanced at the "I Want to Believe" poster behind his desk. It was late. He should've just gone home. He sank into his chair and stared at the assorted file folders, articles, photos, and books piled before him. A package from Aero Messenger Service lay on a corner of the desk. Scully's case material. He'd look at it later. He tugged at a couple of folders on one of the stacks. He needed them for Skinner's reports. He'd finish them at home, not that the A.D. would be too thrilled when he read them. They would just give him more questions than answers, as usual.

He picked the folders up, threw them back down, slammed his fist hard on the desk as his mind jumped to where he didn't want it to go.

Krycek. Damn. Damn him. Alex Krycek had been there, looking at that body. What was the bastard involved in now? What was he doing?

//I'm here to help you.// He heard the husky, whispery words in his memory, and slammed his fist again. In his mind's eye, he saw the melting reflection of rain on a ceiling, ghost white flashes of lightning and he remembered the heat and ripple of firm muscle under smooth skin, and soft warm lips opening against his hard cock. And eyes the color of absinthe.

Like a twisted joke, his irrepressible memory recalled a description of absinthe by Oscar Wilde, something he'd read one negligent summer at Oxford, years ago. "After the first glass you see things as you wish they were. After the second, you see things as they are not. Finally you see things as they really are, and that is the most horrible thing in the world." Yes, that was Alex Krycek, he thought bitterly, the very essence of the man and what he did to everyone he touched.

Mulder pushed the folders away, pushed his chair back and stood up. He had to get out. He picked up the phone, punched in a number. Listened to it ring several times before it was answered. "Yeah, Frohike, it's Mulder. Why'd it take you so long to answer? Surveillance tape run out?"

"Hey, there's nothing wrong with our equipment."

A tired grin touched Mulder's face for a moment. "I'm coming over. You can show me what you've done with that little package I left you."

"We just might have something of interest to share with you on that matter. And, if you hurry, we might even have some of Langly's veggie loaf for you, too."

"I think I'll take the long, scenic route. See you when I get there."

Even so, they had half of the v-loaf waiting for him when he arrived.

"Fellas, you shouldn't have. Really."

"I thought you said you were taking the scenic route, kiddo."

"I couldn't find it." Mulder wasn't about to tell them he needed their distraction more than he feared Langly's foray into vegetarian cooking.

"Cool. Try my loaf, dude. It turned out better this time."

"Yeah, it's almost edible," added Frohike.

Mulder eyed the small greenish-brown brick. "Let it age a bit. You could have an x-file on your hands, and it doesn't look like you'll have long to wait either."

Frohike chuckled. Langly sniffed indignantly and flicked a few long blond strains behind his ear. "So, Mulder, did Dewey have anything for you?"

Mulder glanced over his shoulder as he walked towards their small bank of computers. "Two stiffs with permanent spots before their eyes."

"Of significance?" Frohike asked.

"Could be. I'm still checking it out. Langly, thanks for the tip."

"De nada. It never hurts to have friends in the land of the dead."

"How'd you meet that kid anyway?"

"Dungeons and Dragons. And, he subscribes to the Lone Gunmen, not to say he's capable of appreciating the nuances of conspiracy theory. Damn good gamer though."

Mulder shook his head amiably. Byers was staring into one of the screens, fingers tapping into the keyboard.

"You find anything new on the Ridley material?" he asked.

Byers stopped, swiveling in his chair. His expression always seemed to have a certain quizzical air about it, as if the man was in a permanent state of wonder. Mulder glanced from one member of the trio to the other. Come to think of it, they all had that look. He felt an affectionate smile tug at his lips.

"We seem to be running into one dead end after another on the cell-grafting experiments," Byers told him solemnly. "We decided to concentrate on the names of anyone Ridley mentions in his journals to see if that might open up any leads." Byers tapped into the keyboard, drawing up a screen with a short list of names.

Mulder looked at Frohike. "I thought you said you had something interesting for me."

"In a manner of speaking," replied the little man, pointing to the screen.

"It's what we haven't been able to find."

"Okay, guys, give me the punchline."

Byers answered. "There are six names mentioned somewhere in Ridley's papers. As far as we've been able to ascertain, those individuals are located all over the world. Five of them have two things in common: they have backgrounds in bioengineering or biotechnology. And, all five are missing."

"Missing?"

Langly came up behind him. "Well, not officially. Their whereabouts are unknown, as in, over the course of two years, they all left their jobs, home towns, friends and, in one case, family, to accept positions elsewhere for an undisclosed period of time. Except no one seems to know where "Elsewhere" is located. Smells like global top secret conspiracy shit to me."

Mulder pulled up a chair. "And the sixth person?"

Byers pointed to a name on the screen. "He's an medical anthropologist. He worked for a private institute in Toronto, but several years ago he quit his position and moved to Mexico. From Ridley's notes, it looks like that's where they met."

"Did Ridley indicate how he knew the other five people? Was he in contact with any of them?"

"It's not really clear, but it seems as if he was corresponding briefly with two or three of the others. He was interested in their research. He thought he could incorporate some of it in his own work. We can't tell from his notes whether he actually met any of them."

Mulder rubbed at the back of his neck, wondering at the biotech element. "Maybe the anthropologist has nothing to do with any of it. Just a coincidence that they met?"

Frohike poked his head over one of the monitors. "Ah, but that's the weird part. Ridley mentions that the anthropologist was really interested in his cell-grafting experiments, to the point of being an annoyance. Get this, in his notes, Ridley refers to the guy as a crackpot spouting drivel about extraterrestrial DNA experiments."

"Where's this anthropologist now, in Mexico?"

"No. Seems that he's now working on some research project in the Philippines."

Mulder looked from one face to the other and pointed to the computer screen. "Okay, let's see where we can go with this..."

An hour later, Mulder was in his car heading home. He had the list of names from the Gunmen in his pocket, a scowl on his face, and the beginnings of a bad headache. He lowered his window a little, letting the sharp winter breeze fill the car. As he neared the turnoff towards Alexandria, his fingers tightened around the steering wheel, his heart speeding up. Suddenly compelled, he moved into the right lane, changing direction at the last second, heading instead towards Arlington.

He was restless, his instincts prickling. He wanted to know why Krycek was looking at that body in the morgue. He wanted to talk to Scully, but he wasn't ready to tell her about the Ridley papers. And he was no where near ready to talk about Krycek.

He thought about checking out the area where the two bodies were found, check on possible witnesses. That would be productive.

He thought about all the things he could do that were more sensible, more useful, more logical as he drove the rest of the way to Arlington.

When he turned onto the tree-lined street, lovely even in the starkness of winter, he wondered why he couldn't stop himself. He slowed as he neared the house, his eyes widening in surprise. The lights were on and there was a shiny black Mercedes parked in the driveway. He parked his car across the street and sat, staring at the house.

A few days after his first...meeting with Krycek in this house in Arlington, Mulder had driven back here. He hadn't thought it was a good idea then either. The house had been dark and empty. He had told himself at the time that it was a fortunate thing.

Mulder gripped the key in the ignition, telling himself he should leave. He didn't even know who might be in the house. Krycek was probably long gone. Perhaps the Well-Manicured Man was back in residence, or maybe one of the other Syndicate elders. Mulder smiled humorlessly. He could handle that. Yeah, maybe he could get some real answers tonight after all.

He pulled the key out of the ignition and opened the car door.

*********

Krycek wanted to get out of the fancy monkey suit and get some sleep, but the old man seemed to be in a talkative mood.

"I think I'll have a cognac before I retire. Join me, Alex?"

Krycek had had too much champagne already but he nodded his assent anyway. There was a question he'd been wanting to ask the old man for a while now. This seemed as good a time as any.

"I believe I have a bottle of Courvoisier here."

The antique cabinet in the corner of the spacious living room held an array of fancy bottles amounting to a small fortune in liquor from what Krycek could see of the labels. He hadn't indulged in anything more than a bottle or two of beer in his earlier stay in the house.

His host poured the cognac into two balloon snifters and handed one to Krycek before settling himself in one of the comfortable suede-covered wingchairs. Krycek went over to the sofa and seated himself in the corner.

One sip of the superb brandy and he was reminded of what it meant to lead the good life.

"It's a pity I've given up cigars. Nothing better than a fine cognac and a good cigar," the smooth British voice informed him. "I have some very warm memories of quiet evenings with friends at my old club in London. Amazing how simple the past can seem."

"Was it simple?" asked Krycek softly.

The pale, sharp eyes were gazing into the fireplace, into the glowing flames. "Nothing is ever simple. We only remember it that way."

"I want to ask you something."

The gray head turned towards him. "Yes?"

"Why me?" Krycek watched a silver-gray brow arch questioningly. He took another sip of the cognac. "Why didn't you just leave me there in that freighter, after I gave you the vaccine?"

"They would have killed you in Vladivostok, if you were fortunate."

"Probably, but what did it matter to you? Do you trust me?"

The old man smiled. "I have not been that naïve in decades. I trust no one...completely."

"Then, why me?"

The logs crackled in the fireplace, the only sound in the room. Finally, the Syndicate Elder answered. "Your father was a gifted man. He was ill-used."

Krycek felt the anger surge through him, tried to keep it down, tried not to let it seep into his voice. "He was a coward. You think you owe me something because of him?"

His host looked at him in that slow, measuring way he'd come to recognize. "Your judgment is harsh, Alex. Your father had a unique brand of strength the rest of us lacked. You are a great deal like him."

"No, you're wrong." Krycek spat the words out, his chest heaving as the anger broke free. Almost immediately, he caught himself, froze, then very deliberately, sat back, steadying his glass slowly on the sofa arm, steadying his breathing.

The old man sipped leisurely at his cognac like someone who has just won a satisfying argument. "I took you out of that freighter and brought you back here, and back into the Syndicate because you understand what must be done, as I do. We share a goal, Alex, if nothing else. As allies, we may be able to succeed in impeding the colonization plan. If we fail then it doesn't matter what other agendas you or I may have." He raised his glass towards Krycek. "In one respect, I will concede that you are unlike your father: I think you will fight to survive, no matter what."

Krycek raised his chin with a flicker of a smile, his eyes hard as stone. "I plan to be around long after all those old buddies of yours are dead. In fact, I hope to do all I can to help them on their way."

The Syndicate elder raised an elegant eyebrow, his expression almost amused. "Yes, I believe you will, Alex, but all in good time. First you will need to--"

The doorbell rang and both men exchanged glances. The bell sounded again. Krycek got up and picked up his automatic from the cherrywood table, clicking off the safety. The old man stood and followed him to the foyer.

Krycek glanced through the peephole and stepped back slowly. The bell rang again.

"Who is it?" the old man asked him.

Drawing in a breath, Krycek continued to stare at the door. "It's Mulder."

"Is it now? Well then, you had better let him in." As Krycek hesitated and the bell rang yet again, the old man's voice grew firmer. "Put the gun away and open the door, Alex."

Krycek felt his stomach knotting. Adrenaline was suddenly shooting through him. Fight or flight or...?

He dropped his gun into the drawer of the entryway table, pulled the door open and found himself staring into Fox Mulder's face, his own heart hammering in his chest. At first glance, Mulder seemed angry. Then he seemed startled, confused, and angry again. Within seconds Krycek felt like some kind of insect pinned under a slide, the hazel eyes sweeping over him again and again.

"Won't you come in, Agent Mulder?"

The old man's serene voice snapped Krycek back to himself and he stepped aside quickly, letting Mulder walk by him. The FBI agent looked from the old man to Krycek and back again.

"Looks like I missed the party." Mulder headed towards the living room, his gaze darting everywhere. It was the tuxedos, Krycek realized, glancing down at himself.

Krycek was breathing fast, acutely aware of Mulder's physical presence. He didn't trust himself to speak. He didn't even trust himself to move.

"This is rather a late hour for a visit, Agent Mulder. Is there a problem?" The calm, lightly accented voice seemed politely curious as the old man followed Mulder into the living room. The gray head turned back, prompting him. "Alex?"

Krycek managed to put one foot in front of the other, as he struggled to get himself under control.

Mulder was staring at him again, though he addressed the old man. "So, giving him lessons on how to dress? Don't you think you should've started with Basic Office Attire first? As I recall he could use some help picking out suits."

"We attended a formal charity gala in the District this evening, a pet project of mine. The affair collected over a million dollars to benefit a variety of local non-profit agencies. Quite a success. It's so important to be involved in the community, don't you agree, Agent Mulder?"

Mulder turned towards the old man, his mouth open. He looked like he was about to laugh, but the sound was more like a hiss. "You've turned hypocrisy into an art form."

"If the needy accepted help only from saints, there would be few survivors in this world. We're all hypocrites in one way or another." He gestured towards the sofa. "Would you care for a cognac, Mr Mulder?"

Mulder took in the snifters and the crackling fire, the expensive furniture, the paintings, the persian rugs. "Elegant yet cozily domestic." He threw Krycek a smirk. "Yeah, sure, I'll have a cognac."

Krycek stared back as Mulder settled himself on the sofa, unbuttoning his topcoat and throwing an arm over the back of the sofa as he accepted the snifter of brandy from the old man. He would've looked nonchalant except for the tense line of his mouth.

Krycek couldn't help staring at Mulder's mouth. He couldn't help remembering what it felt like against his skin. Against his lips, his body. He swallowed and forced himself to look away.

"Now, what can we do for you?" The Syndicate elder sat back in his wingchair and picked up his glass again, watching Mulder.

"For starters, I want to know what your pretty boy here was doing in the D.C. Morgue. Checking on his latest homework assignment?"

Krycek's gaze shot up, meeting Mulder's challenging look.

"You have an unfortunate way of asking for information, Agent Mulder," said the old man coolly. "If you have a question for my associate, why don't you ask him."

Mulder gave the Well-Manicured Man a brittle smile and turned back to Krycek. "Looks like you've been given permission to speak."

"Why don't you just go to hell, Mulder." Krycek's voice was thick and husky. He could barely keep himself from shaking. Only Mulder could push him from one emotional extreme to the other in a heartbeat. He hated Mulder for it, and hated himself for letting the man get to him so effortlessly.

"Gentlemen, you're wasting time and time is a commodity I cannot spare." The Syndicate elder pinned them both with his pale, nerveless eyes. "It's been a long day. If you want an answer, Agent Mulder, then I suggest you rephrase your question."

Mulder's mouth tightened into a hard line and he stood up slowly. Krycek waited, his hand balling into a fist at his side as Mulder took a step towards him. "What were you doing at the morgue, Krycek?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Krycek could see a faint smile growing on the old man's face. He drew in a breath. "Checking out a mistake."

"Your own?"

He wondered when he would learn to stop playing right into Mulder's smartass mouth. That fucking, smart mouth. That...mouth. "The Colonists have created secret research centers all over the world, Mulder. There's one in this area, somewhere, but not even the Syndicate knows exactly where. They're not being given information on all of the research activity. The Colonists may suspect that the group has been infiltrated by Rebel sympathizers."

"Like the two of you? Or are you playing both sides, as usual?" cut in Mulder.

Krycek met Mulder's cold gaze with one of his own.

"There may be some discord among the scientists now, disagreements on how to proceed with the hybridization research," said the Well- Manicured Man.

Krycek glanced at the old man. "We've heard that unsanctioned experiments have been conducted with the black oil. It looks like someone's trying to find a way of killing the entity while it's still in the host. It's either that or they're attempting to create some kind of sustained symbiosis."

"The latter seems unlikely," interjected the Well-Manicured Man. "In either case, they're failing."

Mulder looked from one man to the other. "The bodies in the morgue?"

Krycek nodded.

"Will there be others?"

The old man put his brandy glass aside. "I do not believe so. The Colonists are changing procedures, tightening security measures." He stood up slowly. "Have you learned anything from the Ridley material?"

Mulder was frowning. "I'm still working on it."

The Well-Manicured Man pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Do what you can. It may hold the key to some important answers." The grandfather clock in the foyer began to delicately chime the hour. "It's late. If you'll excuse me, it's time I retired for the night. I have a busy schedule tomorrow." He gestured towards Mulder's barely touched glass. "Please finish your cognac, Mr Mulder. It's a shame to waste such an excellent vintage. One should enjoy the finer things in life while one has the opportunity. You strike me as a man who rarely avails himself of such opportunities. That's a great pity, Agent Mulder. If you have any other questions, perhaps Alex can answer them for you. Goodnight, gentlemen."

Krycek threw the old man a perplexed look as he walked out of the room towards the stairs without a backward glance. Then he turned back to find Mulder making himself comfortable on the sofa, reaching for the snifter of brandy.

"I didn't expect you to be here," Mulder told him, in a tone that was strangely conversational.

Krycek moved towards the fireplace and stared through the antique brass grill into the flames. Bits of ash drifted up from the crackling logs. He could feel the warmth dancing against his face. "Always expect the unexpected," he answered softly. It was as much a reminder to himself as it was a reply.

"Oh, yeah, that seems the safest way to go with you and your old cronies." Mulder sipped at the cognac. "Not bad. Your patron was right about that. Such are the lifestyles of the rich and infamous. Looks like you've proven, once again, that crime does pay."

"You've got it wrong again, Mulder." He gestured to the elegant room around them without taking his eyes away from the flames. "I'm just passing through. None of this belongs to me."

The silence that followed seemed to stretch interminably, until he finally glanced towards the sofa to see if Mulder was still there. The hazel eyes stared back at him intently.

"Passing through from where and to what? Yeah, you're going places all right. That cagey old man knows it. He's made you his heir apparent. It's strictly the big leagues for you now." Mulder took another sip of the brandy and sighed. "Is that what you wanted? Has it been worth the price...Alex?"

Krycek felt something twist inside his chest. It was more than just hearing his name like that. It was the odd and unexpected note of regret in Mulder's voice. The little pain sharpened into the point of a blade sinking into his flesh. "Sometimes you don't realize what the price will be until after you've paid it. Then all you can do is live with it, or die."

Mulder looked away, his voice turning flat again. He put his glass down on the table. "What happened to resist or serve?"

"A dead man can't do either."

"Alex Krycek, master of survival." Mulder got up and shrugged his trenchcoat into place as he closed the distance between them. "How did they get those men, those victims in the morgue?"

"People vanish every day. Runaways, criminals, kidnap victims, the Just Plain Lost, all sorts of people. Many are never found. And those are only the ones that somebody gives a damn about. How did 'They' get those men? Lemme guess, offer a wino a drink, offer a junkie a fix, they'll follow you anywhere. And I bet no one will even miss them."

"I want to know where that Center is, Krycek."

"So do I."

The two men stood silently, with just the sound of the crumbling logs in the fireplace, flames beginning to flicker low. Another standoff, another wall. A small smile played quickly over Mulder's mouth. "Who knotted your bowtie for you?"

Krycek frowned at the question, at the strange turn in their conversation, at the runaway rollercoaster that was Mulder's brain. He looked down at his tuxedo. Sighing, he reached up behind his neck, fiddling beneath the collar of his silk shirt until he found the tab, snapped it open. He pulled the knotted bowtie off and flung it at Mulder. Then he freed the top button on his shirt, not surprised that he didn't feel any more comfortable for it. "Any other questions before you go?"

Mulder crushed the bowtie in his hand for a second, then dangled the strip of black satin from his fingers. "The wonders of haute couture." He took another step towards him. "I'm beginning to think you wear more masks than they do in a Noh play."

Before Krycek could even fathom the comment, he felt Mulder's arm around his neck, jerking him forward, their mouths crushing together. Then just as quickly, Mulder's mouth gentled, the full lips brushing, nuzzling against him, kissing him over and over again.

He wanted to pull away. He knew he should pull away, but the twisting pain inside him was melting into fire, spreading so quickly through him. He moaned, unable to stop himself. The heat of Mulder's mouth was burning through him. He felt his lips open, felt Mulder's tongue slipping over and around his own. Tasted cognac. His arm slipped around Mulder's shoulders, pressing them even closer. Even with all the layers of clothing between them, he could feel Mulder's erection against his groin. His own cock was throbbing and hard. They began moving against each other, grinding their bodies together, Mulder's arms burrowing inside his jacket, roaming up and down his back.

A log snapped in the fireplace, the sound like a muffled rifle shot.

They broke apart, Krycek stumbling back a step, dazed, half-gasping. Mulder was trembling, raising the back of his hand to his mouth, shaking his head. His skin was flushed, eyes bright with a dark excitement. He was beautiful in a way no other man had ever seemed to Krycek before.

Krycek could feel himself shaking, too. He wanted Mulder terribly, felt the hunger screaming from every cell. He was starving for him. But Mulder was already moving towards the door. Krycek fought the urge to run after him, forced himself with every last bit of strength and reason to stand still. He could hear Mulder's hurried steps, the door flinging open. He waited with the lingering taste of Mulder in his mouth and the feel of his hard body against him. He listened to the sound of a car starting, the quick screech of tires, and then the silence.

He walked slowly to the door. It was half-open, letting in the cold night air and a chilling breeze. He didn't feel it. He closed the door and set the locks. Pulled his gun from the drawer. Walked to the security panel and checked the alarms. Walked through the rooms and turned off the lights. In the end, he found himself in front of the remains of the fire, watching the dying glow of the embers as the room faded into darkness.

As he made his way upstairs, he gazed down the long hallway towards the old man's room at the far end, the bedroom that faced the garden. He wondered if the other man had heard anything. If maybe he had been spying on them. No, the Brit had too much class for that. He wasn't like the Smoker. Yet, it seemed as if the old man had deliberately left him with Mulder. Just as he had sent him to Mulder with the news of the Alien war and the captured Rebel leader, the news that had given Mulder back his faith. And, the old man had been adamant about Krycek being the one to give Mulder the Ridley material on that night of the storm. Krycek swallowed at the memory and rubbed his hand over his face, feeling the emotions welling up all over again. Why had Mulder kissed him tonight? Why did it feel so good? Damn it, he couldn't let Mulder keep affecting him this way. There was too much to be done. Too many plans already in motion. He still had to deal with the smoking bastard. He still had to work with the Syndicate scum. He couldn't afford to make any more mistakes. He couldn't afford to be distracted by Fox Mulder. He couldn't let a hopeless, pathetic dream get in his way.

He stopped in the doorway of his room. The same room where he'd spent the night with Mulder. "It doesn't matter," he whispered angrily to himself. He took a deep breath and went into the room, shutting the door and switching on one of the bedside lamps. The light threw a soft, golden glow across the elegant furnishings. His gaze swept across the antique writing desk, the polished bureau dresser, the painting of the foxhunt on the wall, the tall windows with their fine voile curtains. Finally, his eyes fell on the wide four-poster with its muted rose bedspread. He felt an ache in his chest as he took off his shoes and tuxedo jacket. He lay back on the bed, his hand absently stroking the silken coverlet. He closed his eyes and saw Mulder's face. He heard the sound of pounding rain and thunder. Saw the memory of that night unfold in a thousand tormenting images.

He slammed his fist against the bed with a groan, his erection chafing against his pants. He opened his eyes and stared up at the ceiling. What the hell was he going to do? How was he going to deal with this? Even as he asked himself the question, he was sitting up and reaching for the phone on the bedside table. Every rational cell in his brain began screaming at him to stop. Every sensible, self-preserving instinct was proclaiming him a fool as he cradled the phone receiver in his prosthetic hand and began to punch in the number.

**********

The stars winked at Mulder like sly crystal eyes as he stared up at the sky. "C'mon, share the cosmic joke. Or am I it?"

He couldn't seem to get out of the car. He'd been parked in front of his apartment for he-didn't-know-how-long, the winter air washing over him from the open window. He was chilled and shivering, but the cold still couldn't reach the part of him that was burning.

He understood aberrant behavior. He'd seen it, studied it, profiled it. Yeah, he knew it when he saw it. He gazed into the rearview mirror. "You are truly fucked up." He rubbed his hands over his face and slumped back into his seat.

The tux had thrown him. Waiting for that front door to open, Mulder had prepared himself for any number of possibilities, but he sure as hell hadn't expected to come face to face with Alex Krycek, fucking GQ Model of the Year. The unpredictable, duplicitous bastard. And then there was the wily old Brit standing there in the background, looking even more smug and supercilious than usual. What was going on with those two? Not that he gave a fucking damn. He really didn't, he told himself adamantly.

He was more troubled about what was going on between himself and Krycek. Whatever the hell that might be. Ironically enough, for a man who had spent most of his life searching for the truth, Mulder wasn't sure he wanted to know. Maybe Krycek did want to stop the colonization, and maybe he really did want to help him. Even so, Mulder knew it would only be to further Krycek's own interests. Those interests were bound to be dark, dangerous and illegal. And, the past would always be there between them, no matter what. Unfortunately, that did nothing at all to explain why Mulder kissed him on the mouth. And kept kissing him. Didn't explain why he wanted to do far more than that. Everything was fucked up since his Sex with the Single Arm session at that house. Mulder sighed, his breath frosting in the air. It had been so much easier when he just wanted to beat the life out of the bastard. Recognizing that he had that much violence in him was tough enough, yes, but at least he could rationalize it against Krycek's many transgressions. However ugly, it made some kind of hairy, testosterone sense. But he didn't know what the hell to do about the breadth of his feelings for Krycek now. They seemed to span a wide, wide range from hatred to...the inexplicable. He shivered again and finally made himself roll up the window and get out of the car. He could be just as miserable in his apartment, after all.

He was getting into the elevator, pushing the button for his floor when he saw it. A sliver of black satin hanging from the side of his trenchcoat. His heart sped up and his cock twitched as he pulled Krycek's bowtie from his pocket. Damn, he must've shoved it in there when he'd started kissing...

The elevator doors opened with a thump, startling him, and he walked slowly out and down the hallway, black satin crushed in his fist. As he approached his door, he found himself holding the bowtie up to his face, against his mouth and nose. He could smell the faint scent of expensive cologne and Krycek's skin and he saw him in his mind's eye, standing near the fireplace in that tux with the glow of the firelight spilling over him like molten gold.

Mulder hadn't even noticed the prosthesis.

With a tired groan, he shoved the satin strip back into his pocket. He fumbled with his keys, realized his hands were trembling, and finally unlocked the door and went inside. He stood just inside, in the dark, and looked down at the precise spot on the floor where he had picked up a small square of paper a few months ago. He felt his throat tighten and he walked over to the couch, sinking down into the cool leather.

The red light on his answering machine was blinking. Scully. Probably wondering if he'd looked at the material she'd messengered to the office and if he'd finally gotten to those reports for Skinner. He managed a weak smile. Scully was always there for him. Maybe they didn't share the same kind of 'faith,' but they believed in each other. He knew she was on his side.

If only.

He shook his head and slipped his hand into his jacket pocket, pulling out the list that the Gunmen had given him. He would have to tell Scully about Ridley's papers. She wouldn't be happy about his methods, but what the Gunmen had found was important. He could feel it. If they could find the sixth man, they might find the key to uncovering the truth about the Colonists, about the abductions. And Samantha. He squeezed his eyes shut, then reached down to pull the bowtie from his other pocket. He placed the list and the rumpled black satin on the coffee table, side by side. He stared at them for a long time.

His muscles were tense when he stood up. He rubbed at the back of his neck and glanced at his watch. It was late but he thought about calling Scully anyway. He went over to the machine to check her message. The buttons clicked and the tape rewound briefly and played his greeting as he shrugged off his coat. When he heard the soft, velvet voice, his body just...froze.

"Mulder. Come back tomorrow night. Nine o'clock. I-I'll be alone." Click.

He stared, wide-eyed, at the answering machine. "Son of a bitch." Then he yelled. "You son of a bitch!" He began pacing back and forth across the living room, fists punching the air. The light from the fishtank cast a liquid, eerie glow through the shadowy room as he kept pacing. Slowly, the anger drained out of him and he stopped and just stood in the middle of the room. Inside, he was still burning.

He pulled off his tie, his jacket and dropped the rest of his clothes in a trail to the bathroom. He turned on the light and the shower, and waited until the mirror began to steam.

He shook as the water poured over him. He ducked his head under the spray and rested his forehead against the slick white tiles. The spray beat across his back and shoulders, rivulets of heat running over his buttocks and legs. It was soothing, relaxing. The water drummed hypnotically against the tiles and the floor of the shower, like rain. Like a heavy rainstorm. Suddenly the images came flooding back. With a groan he threw his head back, eyes closed, the water hitting him across the face and neck. The images teased him and he drew his hand down over his chest and over his groin and wrapped his fingers around his growing erection. His mind continued to torment him with the memory of Krycek's mouth, lips and tongue unexpectedly tentative and wholly erotic as they delicately licked and sucked his cock. Mulder moaned and began to stroke himself.

He came against the tiles, semen mingling with the pounding spray, leaving him feeling more guilty than relieved. He washed and dried himself quickly, throwing on his old blue terrycloth robe.

The lights were still off in the living room as he dug out a pillow and blankets from the closet and spread them out on the couch. He was getting tired of sleeping in the living room. One day soon, he'd have to try and clear out the bedroom, make it habitable again. Yeah, sure. His mouth stretched in a cynical line. The odds were more likely that an X-file would redecorate his bedroom before he ever got around to it. He almost wished it would.

He settled down into the couch and turned on the remote. The TV flickered to life but he didn't really watch it. An infomercial rolled silently on as he shifted restlessly this way and that, punched at the pillow and pulled at the blankets. Finally, though he struggled against it, the memory of that night with Krycek crept back into his mind again. This time it was the comfort of that big, elegant four-poster bed that taunted him. Lying in those silky, rose-colored sheets, wrapped warmly around the man who had so deeply betrayed him, a raging rainstorm thundering around them, Mulder had slept like a baby. It didn't make sense. Nothing about his interactions with Krycek ever made sense. He threw the blankets aside and staggered off the couch to the answering machine. He rewound the tape and waited. His heartbeat jumped up as Krycek's voice drifted across the room. "Mulder. Come back tomorrow night. Nine o'clock. I-I'll be alone."

Did Krycek seriously expect him to show up? To run over there with his dick poking through his pants? Or maybe he expected him to turn up on his doorstep with a bottle of wine under one arm and a single red rose clamped between his teeth? The lying little prick. What kind of fucking head games was he playing now?

Mulder threw up his hands, stopping himself. Wait. Think. He forced himself to take a long, deep breath. Slowly, he looked down at the answering machine and replayed the message again. And again. And made himself listen, not to the words but to the voice, the tone, pauses, cadence. Krycek sounded strained, hesitant. Maybe even a little afraid? Scully would have said he sounded like a man making a confession.

Mulder finally clicked off the tape and combed his fingers through his damp hair and felt the room's chill wrap around him. He went back to the couch and burrowed under the blankets, flicking off the TV. With the night closing around him and the soft gurgle of the aquarium in the background, he stared up at the ceiling, knowing sleep would elude him again.

**********

Krycek fiddled with the straps on his prosthesis, moving his shoulder to settle the weight and fit of it more securely. He looked at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, felt that now familiar moment of revulsion as his eyes swept over his body and focused on the flesh-colored plastic that was his left arm. He wondered if the feeling would ever go away. He doubted it. He'd never be a whole man again.

"You got what you deserved, remember that. No self-pity, asshole," he warned his reflection. There was really no other mindset for him if he was going to survive. He knew how to compensate for the arm. The prosthesis was manageable, much better than the first one. He'd also figured out a proper calisthenics routine for himself and he'd stuck to it conscientiously. His body was in good shape. He was stronger than he'd ever been. He couldn't afford to look vulnerable, to be vulnerable. "So what do you do, asshole? You go and invite Mulder back here."

Krycek shook his head, banishing the subject that had kept him tossing and turning for most of the night and walked back into the bedroom. The gray dawn had passed into serious daylight, the weak winter sun filtering through the tall windows. He rummaged through the closet, not particularly surprised to find that all the clothes he had left behind were still hanging there. The old man hadn't wanted him to look like a refugee and had stocked the closets accordingly. He smiled faintly as he recalled how the Well-Manicured Man had been the only one to object to sending him in as Mulder's partner four years ago. The Smoker had retorted that it was probably Krycek's suits that the old man found most offensive about the plan. The Brit hadn't found the comment amusing. Krycek's smile faded as he wondered how things might've turned out had the Syndicate listened to the Brit instead of the Smoker. He shrugged the thought away. It was a pointless waste of time to speculate on a past that couldn't be changed.

Krycek put on a tee shirt and tucked it into his black jeans. Then he picked out a thick wool burgundy sweater. Like the tee shirt, he put it up over his left arm first, just one of the thousand little ways he'd had to adjust his routine activities to the prosthesis, but at least it was getting easier, more automatic. He paused as he smoothed the fine wool over his waist. Strange how the old man never referred to his fake arm at all, as if he didn't notice it. The other Syndicate bastards never failed to remind him.

He headed downstairs a few minutes later, going first into the living room to look for his bowtie. Several futile minutes later, he wondered if maybe Mulder had taken it with him by mistake when he stalked out of the place. He could just imagine Mulder rummaging through his musty collection of X-Files paraphernalia for a suitable voodoo doll to wrap it around.

Giving up the search with a sigh, he headed for the kitchen where he was a little surprised to find fresh milk and other groceries in the refrigerator, but then he supposed the old man had expected to spend the night here and had made arrangements in advance. He was certainly a meticulous man who planned every detail.

As Krycek waited for the fresh coffee to finish brewing, he walked over to the large, three paned window that overlooked the garden. It was an unusual window in that half of the middle pane was actually an insert of stained glass. The long, rectangular piece was made of deep blue, azure and green colored glass in the shape of a cluster of tall blue irises, with a dab of yellow in the center of each flower. A border of small beveled crystal squares framed the rectangle. It caught the pale sunlight and spilled it across the white floor in bright shafts of blue and green. When he'd first seen the window, he'd found it disturbing. It had instantly reminded him of a long ago garden filled with irises swaying in the summer breeze. His mother's favorite flower. He had forced himself to sit and just look at the window, sometimes for hours, facing the memories and methodically ridding himself of every feeling. Now when he stared at the irises, he felt nothing. It was just a pretty piece of glass.

He only wished he could banish Mulder from his thoughts as well. He reached out and touched a deep blue petal on one of the flowers. It felt cold against his fingertips as he traced its outline. He shouldn't have called Mulder. It was such a clearly stupid mistake and yet he couldn't seem to stop himself. Mulder was his weakness, his Achilles' Heel. He knew that now. Had realized it the moment he'd given Mulder back his gun that night in his apartment. And if there'd been any doubt, it had been forever erased the night of the storm.

"You're up early, Alex."

Krycek turned to see his host standing in the doorway, impeccably groomed in a dark three-piece pinstriped suit, his silver gray tie matching his neatly combed hair.

"I don't need much sleep."

"Ah, the boundless energy of youth," returned the Well-Manicured Man with a tiny smile. "I, on the other hand, am far too old to waste any more time than necessary in sleep." He walked over to the window and looked out at the garden, at the bare trees and shrubs, stripped by the winter chill. "I must remember to tell the gardeners to plant roses this Spring. They would do well here."

Krycek glanced outside then back at the old man. "Do you have any plans for today?"

"First, I believe I'll have a coffee."

Krycek nodded with a grin and went to pour two cups. "Any plans after the coffee?" he asked as he placed a cup on the table and went back to retrieve his own. They sat down across from each other.

"I'll spend a few days in Virginia. I've already called. Someone will be here shortly to drive me back." The old man sipped his coffee. "No matter how long I've stayed in this country, I'm afraid I still can't tolerate driving on the right side of the road. Seems so uncivilized."

"You didn't need to call anyone. I can drive you."

"That's quite all right, Alex. You should settle in here." The silver brows rose slightly. "I'm sure you have matters of your own to attend to. You can use the Mercedes for as long as you like. I have no need of it. The Syndicate will be meeting early next week. I'll want you to be there. I expect we'll have some progress reports on locating our absent colleague."

"Are you sure he's not dead?"

"Quite certain. Yes. Don't look so disappointed, Alex. Remember, he is the means of solidifying your position in the Syndicate."

Krycek merely stared into his cup.

"I think Agent Mulder was lying."

Krycek glanced up and met the old man's eyes. "Lying?"

"Yes, about the Ridley papers. I think he has indeed discovered something. It's a pity he's disinclined to share the information with us." The old man smiled briefly. "Of course, I can certainly understand his reticence. Ridley's research and the man's involvement with the Project seems peripheral at best, but the fact that the Colonists are so interested in his work would indicate that there is something valuable there. Whatever Mulder has found, it could be significant. We mustn't take the chance of the other Syndicate members discovering that we know the whereabouts of that material. That limits our interference in any case. However, if you have an opportunity to speak with him, you might try and question him about it."

"He won't tell me anything."

"Perhaps he will if you tell him something in return."

Krycek's eyes narrowed. "Assuming I'd even see him, what could I possibly tell him?"

"Something helpful. Oh, nothing that would jeopardize your position or mine, of course, but...something. Mulder is an addict for knowledge. He is also a man with a Mission, a man obsessed. Play to his obsessions, Alex, and you will have the key to Fox Mulder."

"Why would I want it?"

"Mulder is an important player in our grand game. He could affect its outcome more than any of us, and that could ultimately be to your advantage and mine." The Well-Manicured Man gazed at the stained glass irises for a moment. "Besides, you may find you have more in common with him than you realize."

"That's a frightening thought."

"For you or for Mulder?"

Krycek couldn't help but smile at the old man's rejoinder. "For once, I'm sure I know what Mulder would say to that." He paused, playing absently with the handle of his coffee cup. "I think you want me to keep in contact with Mulder. Why?"

The old man looked at him solemnly. "Two years or so ago, I met Agent Mulder late one evening in Central Park. He was looking for you. So were we all, as it turned out. At the time, you had possession of a certain, valuable DAT tape. Do you recall?"

What he could recall of that time, he remembered only too well. He nodded grimly.

"I found my brief discussion that night with Agent Mulder quite illuminating. He was quite intent on locating you. I assumed he wanted to kill you and I told him so. He didn't deny it. Then I asked him why he hadn't killed you already, since he seemed to have had ample opportunity." The old man's lips pursed thoughtfully. "It was his physical reaction to my question that fascinated me. It was as if the question disturbed him so much, he literally had to take a step back from it. His response came a beat too late. I saw something in his face, in his eyes then. I do not believe that Mulder wants to be your enemy, Alex. I believe he simply feels he has to be. If the circumstances allowed, you two would make formidable allies."

"It's too late for that."

The Well-Manicured Man's lips thinned in a rueful smile. "Perhaps. Perhaps not." The antique clock in the hallway chimed the hour in bell-like tones and he rose from his chair. "I have some calls to make to England before my driver arrives." He picked up his cup. "I'll be in the study."

Krycek watched silently as the Brit walked out of the kitchen. He found himself wishing that the old man was right and he was wrong.

**********

Mulder was having a generally lousy day. He managed to complete his reports for Skinner just in time for their meeting. The Assistant Director, as expected, was less than thrilled with their inconclusiveness. Mulder's obvious preoccupation and tendency to glance at his wristwatch during the meeting didn't exactly help to improve his boss' reaction either. At least Scully's data had given his report some substance even if her summary notes didn't quite validate his theory. Status quo.

After a lunch he could barely recall and a bag of sunflower seeds that disappeared over the course of an unproductive afternoon, Mulder was ready to call the whole day a wash. His only notable moments were a call from Byers who told him that the Gunmen had traced a clue to the whereabouts of the sixth man. The man had been staying in Manila most recently, but seemed to have gone off to do some sort of unspecified research on the island of Mindanao. The trail went cold at that point. Byers sounded apologetic.

"Don't worry about it, Byers. Just keep digging. Find out whatever you can about his background, what he was researching in Toronto and in Mexico. I also want you guys to keep checking on the other five scientists. Find out as much as you can. We're getting close, I can feel it."

The other moment was his call to Scully. After a few perfunctory comments about their latest reports and his meeting with Skinner, he almost told her about the Ridley papers. He stopped himself as he decided the best thing to do was just to bring his copy of the material over to her house and hit her with it all at once. When she asked him about his source, he'd tell her the material came from the Well-Manicured Man. That wouldn't be a lie, after all. It just wouldn't be all of the truth. Then, after she read him the requisite riot act, he was sure he could persuade her to review it, including what the Gunmen had found. Scully hated being accused of not keeping an open mind. Mulder would not only be able to sound her out on all his questions about Ridley's research, but he also wouldn't be able to be anyplace else. Yeah, that would be perfect.

"So, Scully, you got any plans for this evening?"

"My mom is paying a visit tonight. She said my ankle gives her the excuse to come over and make dinner for me. Actually, I think she's a little worried about me. I haven't seen her in quite a while, we've been involved in so many cases lately. I'm looking forward to spending some time with her. Why do you ask, Mulder? "

Mulder grimaced. "I'm feeling the sand shifting beneath my feet."

"What?"

"Nothing. I, uh, just had something I wanted to talk to you about. Um, kinda related to an old X-file--"

"Oh, no, Mulder. Unless it's a life and death emergency, you can forget it. I've worked all week at home on those damn reports as it is. Whatever it is can wait until Monday." She paused. "Is it really important, Mulder?" Another pause. "Mulder?"

He realized he was chewing on his thumbnail. Or what was left of it. "Uh, it's okay. It'll keep. I'll tell you about it when I see you. Whenever."

"Good. You're okay, aren't you?"

"Oh, yeah, sure. Great."

"I know I'm not much better at it than you, but it wouldn't hurt for you to try and put the work aside just for an evening, once in a while."

"And do what?"

She sighed. "Go see a movie--with some dialogue in it? Feed your fish. How about that gym where you play basketball every other leap year or so? I don't know, Mulder. Just something normal human beings do."

It was as close to a non work-related discussion as they ever got and it wasn't even new. "If only they'd bring back Disco," he said, sensing her smile across the phone line.

"Well, they might by the time you get around to it."

"I'm that spooky, huh?"

"No, you're not. It's just that I think it's important to step away from the work sometimes."

"Yeah, I know what you're saying, Scully. You have a good evening with your mom, okay?"

"Mulder?"

"I promise. I'll feed the fish." He was pleased to still hear the smile in her voice as she told him she would see him on Monday and hung up.

Though he was disappointed, it was also one of those altruistic moments when he realized that Scully might not be living the kind of life she wanted to live, when he caught sight of what Scully's involvement with the X-files had cost her. She'd given up so much and yet he kept asking her for more and more. Another wave of guilt washed over him because he knew he would just keep on asking her, for as long as she would let him.

After the call, Mulder ignored the other report he told Skinner he would finish and divided what was left of the day between researching the Island of Mindanao and reviewing sections of Ridley's notes that he'd hidden among his files.

He left work around 6:30, stopping to buy some fish food on his way home. He kept his promise to Scully as soon as he walked into his apartment. Fish satisfied, he changed into his sweats and went out for a long run. It was cold and windy but he needed to burn off some of the energy that just seemed to be building and building inside him. He ran until his legs felt like rubber and he was gasping for breath.

When he staggered back into his apartment, he dragged his ancient portable radio into the bathroom, turned on one of the oldies stations, kicked up the volume and took a shower. The driving beat of "Jailhouse Rock" and the Supremes helped mask the sound of the water. All the same, he showered in record time.

He ordered a pizza that arrived a little after 9 o'clock. Four and a half minutes after nine to be precise. It was as if he could hear every single tick of every watch and clock in the place.

"Why the hell should I go over there," he muttered as he took another bite of pepperoni and cheese. "Am I that crazy?" Five minutes later, he threw the half-eaten slice into the pizza box and slumped back against the couch. Krycek's bowtie was still on the coffee table. He looked at it for a while then reached over and picked it up, draping it over his fist. "Spoils of war," he whispered. His body was tingling again. He heard Scully's voice in his mind. 'Just something normal human beings do.' He stood up slowly like a man resigned to the inevitable. "Well, at least I fed the fish," he said to the empty room.

**********

Krycek read through the material on Senator Matheson twice and made a couple of calls to find out a few things that wouldn't ever show up in any computer records. It was beginning to add up to something very useful and possibly very powerful. The fact that certain parties now considered him a close associate of the old Brit's hadn't hurt either. There were new avenues opening for him everywhere, and he was going to use every single one of them. He shut off the computer and sat staring at the darkened monitor.

All told, it had been a productive day. When the clock in the hallway chimed ten, he wondered why he still felt so disappointed.

Mulder wasn't going to show. That was...fine. Just fine. The call had been a mistake, a moment of ridiculous weakness that he was never going to repeat. So, he was lucky, lucky that Mulder didn't give a damn.

When the bell rang, his head snapped towards the front door. He stared in disbelief. No, it couldn't be. He stood up, body tensing, as the bell rang again. He was halfway to the door before he realized it. Before caution and common sense could stop him, he was opening the door. With a terrible flash of déjà vu, he found himself looking into Fox Mulder's bright hazel eyes.

At least, this time, it wasn't raining. A strong wind was blowing, though, ruffling Mulder's thick chestnut hair across his forehead. Krycek only had a moment to register that Mulder was wearing a black leather jacket before he was pushed back and the door was slammed shut behind them. The sound made him flinch. Mulder reached into his left pocket, the movement making him take another step backward until he saw the black satin cloth. Slowly, Mulder held the crumpled bowtie out towards him. "Yours," he said, his face beautiful and utterly unreadable.

Krycek watched the full lips open slightly as Mulder stood waiting and he felt his own heart pounding. He raised his hand to take the bowtie and their fingers touched, Mulder's chilly hand suddenly closing over his.

It was like coming together in a strange, dreamlike dance, Mulder filling his space, right arm snaking around his waist as he pulled them together. Krycek caught a glimmer of black satin falling to the floor as he moved his own arm across Mulder's back and their lips met in a kiss.

He leaned his body into Mulder's, his arm clutching at his jacket, fingernails scrabbling against the soft black leather. When he felt Mulder's hands pushing him away, he couldn't quite keep a whimper from escaping at the loss of that cool, tender mouth.

Mulder was staring at him, his breath quick and his eyes burning with light. He gazed up towards the staircase and back again. "C'mon," he said, the word harsh, insistent. He headed up the stairs, glancing back only once.

Krycek followed him, his brain watching from a distance in amazement as his body carried on without it. Mulder had turned on the light in the bedroom and stood looking intently at the big, four-poster bed as if it was some sort of intricate puzzle, his head tilted slightly. Then, puzzle suddenly solved, he shrugged out of his jacket, flinging it over a nearby chair.

Mulder walked up to him, arms going around him again, but this time, hands gripped his ass roughly, long fingers scraping along the seam of his jeans between his cheeks. There was something calculating about the gesture, something cruel that didn't seem like Mulder at all. Memories that were dark and enraging rose from a buried corner of his mind.

"I want to fuck you, Krycek." Mulder's voice was cold, detached.

The words hit Krycek in the face. They were a grim echo rising from another past. Suddenly, his whole body tensed. He pushed Mulder away and managed to answer calmly, with effort. "It's a fact of life that we don't always get what we want."

The long brown lashes blinked, hazel eyes staring into his. "You don't like to get fucked in the ass, Krycek?"

The anger began to coil through his insides. Perhaps it was the tone of Mulder's voice or the sudden hint of contempt in his eyes. "Did you think I would?"

Mulder raked him up and down. "I assumed your experience in that area would be extensive."

"Taking a dick up the ass is a painful, humiliating, disgusting act. Why would I want someone to do that to me? Maybe you want me to do that to you?"

Though there was a fleeting sense of satisfaction in seeing the nonplussed expression on the usually bland face, he immediately regretted it. He bit down on his lip, wishing he could take back the words. It was old history. Mulder had nothing to do with any of that. Krycek had dealt with it long ago. Dead and gone. He couldn't believe the anger was coming out of nowhere, choking him again.

"No, but then I've never tried it." The voice was suddenly mild, the hazel stare so innocuously curious that Krycek had to look away. When he glanced back, Mulder was standing by the bookcase. His hardon was pushing against the front of his jeans. "Some of these look like first editions," he said as he pulled a book off of a shelf and put it back again.

Mulder's turn of conversation baffled him. Krycek frowned, struggling between his old rage and the palpable sexual heat that seemed to overtake him whenever Mulder was close by. He let out a breath as he tried to find his mental equilibrium. "I--yes, some of them."

Mulder went over to the bed and picked up a dog-eared paperback from the nightstand. "This is the old man's, too?" he asked, eyebrows rising skeptically.

"No, that's mine."

"Yeah? I wouldn't have thought it'd be your kind of book." He shrugged. "Billy Pilgrim is one of my favorite characters."

"That figures. You're as lost as he is." There was a certain edge of insanity to their exchange. Here they were, standing a few feet from each other with straining erections, and Mulder was commenting on his literary selections. Krycek squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, feeling the anger dissipate in the face of the sheer lunacy of the moment. When he opened them again, Mulder was smiling, a real and genuine Mulder smile, a rare event in Krycek's presence. The temperature in the room went up a few notches.

Mulder's smile faded. "Look, you called me because you wanted to have sex. All right. I'm here because I want to have sex. I'd prefer to do it with my clothes off. How about you?" No coldness, no contempt. Just need. Just a statement of facts.

Yes, it was really that simple, wasn't it? Mulder was right. It was a mutual bad itch that was driving them both crazy. Just scratch the itch and make it go away. And then Mulder would go away. He'd be free. Then again, that's what he thought the night of the storm.

Mulder was pulling off his gray sweatshirt. He wasn't wearing a tee shirt. He dropped the sweatshirt on the plush carpet and turned towards Krycek. The bulge in his crotch pushed impressively against the worn blue denim. He unbuttoned his jeans and slid the zipper down, eyes never leaving Krycek's face. He crouched, ridding himself of his socks and Nikes. And then he stood up wearing nothing but his too-snug, unzipped jeans. He was a wet dream with his wind-blown hair and pouty mouth and burning eyes.

Krycek couldn't even swallow as Mulder walked up to him and kissed him, tongue sliding in deep. Cool fingers burrowed underneath his sweater, under his tee shirt, played over his ribs, his back.

Krycek's cock was so hard, it almost hurt. He moaned into Mulder's mouth as a hand cupped his groin and fingers glided over his black jeans, snapping them open and tugging the zipper down.

Mulder pulled away again, leaving him aching. "I want to look at you. Take your clothes off. Please."

You won't want me, thought Krycek suddenly. The thought cut through him like a razor. If you see me, you won't want me. It had already happened before, another ugly memory, but he hadn't cared then. It hadn't been Mulder then. "Turn off the light."

"No."

At that moment, he wanted Mulder more than anyone, more than anything. It would be all, and then nothing. Slowly, fearing what he would see in Mulder's face and aching with a need he hated himself for, he pulled off his sweater, working it down and over his prosthesis. He clutched the soft wool in his hand for an instant before tossing it on the bed. He reached for his tee shirt and carefully took it off. It was quiet enough to hear the wind outside the tall windows. He fixed his gaze on the pale ivory curtains and waited.

Mulder walked past him and for one, crushing second, Krycek thought he was leaving. But Mulder just stopped to stand behind him. Krycek caught a movement out of the corner of his eye and watched in surprise as long fingers caressed his lifeless hand, trailed up to the elbow joint, moved still upward to where the prosthetic limb met what was left of his arm. Fingertips methodically traced the thin straps that crossed his shoulder and he felt Mulder's hand, the touch fading in and out as he stroked from flesh to plastic and back again.

Mulder seemed fascinated by it. Perhaps Krycek should have expected as much. Then again, Mulder was a man he was rarely able to second-guess. He shifted to look into Mulder's face, to see if there was pity in those eyes. He didn't want that, not that, not from anyone, and especially not from Mulder. But there was only heat and hunger in Mulder's eyes. Simple. Yes, perhaps it could be simple after all. Krycek's thought was blown away as Mulder licked his neck, a long, slow swirl that ended in a sloppy, wet kiss. Krycek bared his neck for more. Hands encircled his waist and began sliding his jeans down.

A few minutes later they were both naked, rolling and twisting across the pristine, rose-colored sheets on the big four-poster, their hard bodies grinding against each other. Both were too impatient and needy, too hungry for restraint. They came quickly, almost together.

Krycek opened his eyes, gulping for air, chest heaving. Mulder's body covered him like a blanket, puffs of warm breath tickling the side of his neck. Their bodies were slick with sweat, semen smeared between their bellies. Mulder's weight pressed him down, trapped him. It felt good all the same. He realized with a mental start that he had wrapped his arm around Mulder's shoulder, hand caressing the thick brown hair, the heavy strands falling like silk through his fingers. They didn't talk as their heartbeats settled, neither man moving.

"I hate it when it rains now." Mulder's soft monotone broke the silence. Krycek tried to turn his head to see his face but Mulder only burrowed deeper against his neck, his voice vibrating against his skin. "Every time there's a storm, every time the rain pounds, you're in my head. Bad, bad weather equals Alex Krycek."

"There's no storm tonight," replied Krycek quietly after a moment.

"Isn't there?" Mulder shifted off of him, rolling onto his back. "Felt like lightning to me," he said, his voice low. Their shoulders touched. He couldn't feel the rest of Mulder's arm. His prosthesis lay between them like an odd little wall.

Drawing in a breath, Krycek looked beyond it, to the familiar profile, wondering at the tightness in his chest as Mulder turned his head and met his eyes. He reached over slowly and brushed the kiss-swollen mouth with a fingertip. Lips opened and sucked it in. He pulled his hand away, shocked by the jolt that went through him at that small contact. His heart was racing again and he slid out of the bed, needing to put some space between them. He felt Mulder's eyes boring into his back as he walked into the bathroom. He gripped the edge of the marble vanity top, head lowered. Why did the hunger just grow stronger? The sex should have banked the need. Returned some of his sanity. Why did he still want Mulder so much? So very much. It was all wrong. He couldn't let this damn...feeling throw him off balance.

If it was only sex, he could handle it. It would mean as little to him as it apparently did to Mulder. But he was afraid now. It wasn't just sex for him. It was madness. A flicker of movement in the mirror made him look up. Mulder was standing in the doorway, watching him with that intense gaze that made him want to squirm. He looked away and reached for a wash towel just to have something to do. He wet it under the faucet and began cleaning away the semen that trailed cross his groin and belly. //Go away, Mulder. Come closer, Mulder.// The feelings chased each other round and round. Madness.

He froze with a gasp, dropping the towel, as Mulder's palm cupped the back of his head, sliding slowly down over his hair, his neck, and along his spinal column, pausing at the base of his spine. Mulder's lips caressed his left shoulder while his hand continued over his right buttock, palm rubbing in delicate circles, very gently. Nothing like before.

"We've crossed into Rod Serling territory, Krycek," Mulder breathed into his ear.

Krycek shivered as he fought to keep his voice cool, to build some façade against the feeling. "There are those who'd say you've always been in the Zone, Mulder."

He heard a sound that wasn't quite laughter as Mulder's tongue danced along his earlobe, making Krycek gasp again. Turning, he put his arm around the other man's neck, catching the flicker of confusion that mingled with the need in the bright hazel eyes. It was reassuring to see the confusion. He kissed Mulder long and deep.

Maybe it was the kisses. It had all started with a kiss, after all. Krycek didn't like to kiss men. There was too much intimacy in the act, too much exposure. So, he didn't. Not until Mulder. Strange how he'd thought of kissing Mulder almost from the beginning. He'd even dreamed about it. He should have seen it as a warning.

They broke apart finally and Krycek stooped to pick up the towel, rinsed it out in the basin again and began wiping away the semen across Mulder's crotch and stomach with the warm washcloth. Mulder accepted it docilely, but when he was finished, Mulder took the cloth from his hand and tossed it into the sink. Once again, the lush mouth drew him like a magnet.

Krycek's cock was twitching as they made their way back to the bed.

There was less urgency. It was both more exciting and more disturbing. He was almost too aware of Mulder, of the faintly greenapple smell of his hair, the pale freckles across his shoulders, the uneven line of his teeth, the round tightness of his buttocks. He wanted all of him, all at once, in every way there was to have him. He wished he wasn't so aware of it, that it wasn't so clear to him, so inescapable. When this strange encounter was over, where would they be? Where would *he* be? He wished he knew what Mulder was thinking, what he was feeling. Was it a sexual kink and nothing more for him? Is that how Mulder was able to stand to be with him like this? Why was Mulder touching him so carefully? The long fingers seemed to be mapping his body. He couldn't think, couldn't think...

**********

Smooth. Krycek's skin was so smooth. Mulder lay his cheek over the middle of Krycek's chest. He could hear the man's heartbeat, strong and steady. //He has a heart, after all. Surprise, surprise.// He rubbed his face over the firm muscles and kissed a nipple until it stiffened, heard Krycek's puffs of breath quicken. Krycek's hand touched his hair and fingers stroked his temple, making Mulder sigh.

'Just something normal people do.' Scully's words echoed in his head. But Mulder didn't know what 'normal' was anymore. He hadn't in years. Maybe never. More to the point, Mulder wasn't sure he was cut out for 'normal' even if he could have it. His life was a mosaic of the unbelievable, the unexplainable, the bizarre. Just like tonight, he thought, raising his head a little to look into Krycek's face. His eyes were closed, eyelashes fanning long and dark over pale skin. He was very attractive, much too close to pretty. Mulder had thought maybe there'd be scars and marks on his chest, on his body, evidence of a life lived in the dark, but aside from a long, faded line near his groin, there was nothing to mar the silken smoothness of his flesh. Nothing but the truncated arm. He glanced across Krycek's chest at the prosthesis. Mulder felt no pity. He felt no satisfaction either. He wouldn't have wished that particular fate on a dog. It wasn't justice that took Krycek's arm, only miserable, bad luck. Strangely, ironically, it made Krycek more real to him. Krycek's shame was real. That, more than anything, made him damaged, just like everybody else, though in every other way, Krycek was not like everybody else. The dichotomies that permeated everything about this odd relationship with Krycek seemed endless.

Mulder licked at the other stiffening nipple with his tongue. Krycek's chest rose and fell to the sound of his quick, soft gasps. Mulder pushed himself up and kissed the parted lips lingeringly, then settled himself against the warmth of Krycek's body. Mulder threw his arm over his chest, the back of his fingers brushing against the plastic arm. Though his cock throbbed a little, he suddenly felt too comfortable to move. He closed his eyes for just a moment, Krycek's warmth and sound and scent seeping into him, lulling him.

When he opened his eyes again, the room was very bright. He lifted his head, blinking owlishly. He was lying on his stomach, half on the mattress and half on Krycek. The sheets were tossed over them haphazardly, though the room wasn't cold at all.

"This is the second time we've been...together like this, and the second time you've fallen asleep on me." Krycek's voice was raspy and low. Tired. His eyes looked bloodshot. A faint stubble covered his jaw.

Mulder glanced around. The lamp was still on. Sunshine streamed in through the tall French windows. "Wh-what time is it?"

"A little after eight. I thought you'd never wake up. I heard you had insomnia, Mulder."

"Eight? In the morning?"

"That's not moonlight shining in the windows."

Mulder blinked again, shaking his head. His arm was tucked around Krycek's waist. He lay his head back down against the warm shoulder. "I've had trouble sleeping for years."

"Could've fooled me. Move. I want to get up."

"Why didn't you just get up before?"

There was an uneasy pause before Krycek answered. "You wouldn't let me."

Mulder frowned at the reply. Had he been clinging to him? Krycek could've just shoved him away, woken him up, kicked his ass right out of the bed, smothered him in his sleep, for that matter. Krycek didn't look like he'd slept very much, while Mulder felt blissfully rested. In fact, he hadn't slept so well since...his last night with Krycek. Suddenly, Mulder felt a little uneasy, too.

"Will you move? You're pinning my arm."

Mulder shifted over, kicking the sheets off and watched as Krycek flexed his fingers and rubbed them roughly against his thigh. A sudden hazy image of Krycek cradling him in the night rose in his mind. Mulder reached out and took hold of the other man's wrist, feeling him tense. He held on and felt the resistance ebb away as he slowly began to massage the taut muscles from shoulder to elbow and then down to the tips of the long, tapered fingers. He stopped when he heard Krycek sigh, then he leaned over and kissed him. When he pulled away, they looked into each other's eyes. It seemed that neither of them knew what to say. As the moment stretched, Mulder found himself unnerved by that fragile 'something' he glimpsed in Krycek's eyes, yet he couldn't seem to break the contact. He remembered tears spilling from those eyes, and the sound of a rainstorm. As if Krycek could somehow sense it, he turned his head, lashes lowering to veil his eyes.

Mulder bent down and kissed him again, harder, needing to blot out what he didn't want and couldn't afford to acknowledge. Urging simple, uncomplicated lust to take over and obliterate everything else. From the way he responded, Krycek must have wanted it, too.

When Mulder found himself with Krycek's cock in his mouth, he was almost as shocked as Krycek himself. Even so, it wasn't as strange as he thought it would be. In fact, it didn't feel strange at all, and that was the real surprise. Krycek was silky and hard, hot in his mouth. Mulder's tongue licked and danced over and around the slick shaft and caressed the balls. When he felt an arm pulling at his thigh and a few moments later, felt Krycek's warm, wet lips around his penis, it was like an electric circuit completing itself, rushing through and between them. Mulder was clumsy, Krycek was awkward, but it still felt so good he thought his heart might stop. Mulder couldn't tell his own gasps and moans of pleasure from Krycek's. The taste and feel and scent of a man's cock, of Alex Krycek's cock, was wild and thrilling, intoxicating and dangerous, all the more because it was something he never would have imagined of himself.

It felt more like a vivid dream than reality. It wasn't as desperate and frantic as their earlier coupling, but even more intense for all that. As he felt his balls tightening and his orgasm shooting through him, he pulled away from Krycek, his fingers clenching around the slim hips as he cried out helplessly, his body shaking as he came. Krycek's semen splattered against his mouth and jaw, the side of his cheek. It felt warm and rich and unbelievably erotic. He whimpered as the last ripples of his orgasm rocked through him. The room seemed to spin around him, tumbling him this way and that, and only when the universe finally steadied did he realize that his softening cock was still in Krycek's mouth.

He shifted carefully, hearing Krycek gag and begin to cough as he withdrew. Semen dotted Krycek's parted lips as he fought to swallow and breathe evenly again.

Mulder reached out and gently stroked the side of Krycek's face.

A dog began barking, the sound jarring them both, and Mulder drew back. At the sound of muffled voices and car doors slamming, Krycek was out of bed and carefully peering from the side of the nearest window.

Mulder wiped at the semen on his face with his hand and gazed at Krycek's naked back. Sunshine lit the room and even though Krycek stood away from the direct light, it still touched him, outlining his muscles and tinting his skin a warm, golden hue. The prosthetic seemed even more lifeless against it, the flesh tone flat and cold.

"It's the family across the street. I think they're going on a weekend trip or something. They have an Irish setter. I think they call him Casey. Looks like they're taking him with them."

Mulder listened to this mundane and incongruous bit of news with a sense of bemusement. He was used to hearing about vast alien rebellions and sinister worldwide conspiracies from this man. Shadowy rooms and shadowy nights. Now here he was, lying in a very comfortable bed, in a very comfortable house, sunlight streaming in through the windows, watching Krycek's naked ass while he talked about the neighbors' dog. The barking, along with the sound of children's laughter, faded with the hum of a car driving away. "Is it a beautiful day in the neighborhood, Mr Rogers?"

Krycek turned back to the bed and stared at Mulder. A moment later, a hint of a smirk grew over his face. He raised his hand to his mouth and paused. Mulder watched as Krycek's tongue tip slid over his upper lip, delicately licking at the milky smear across his lips. "I wouldn't know. It's not my neighborhood."

"Then how do you know the name of the dog across the street?"

"The Sandersons next door in the blue house have a Siamese called Jolie. The Meyers in the cream house have a daughter named Becky. No pets. Know the territory, Mulder, whether it's yours or not."

Mulder gathered the scattered pillows and propped himself up. "You don't exactly blend in, do you?"

"Hardly. But they know the old man. Of him, at least. He doesn't exactly blend in either, but he's owned this house a long time even though he rarely uses it. He's a rich and worldly man of influence to the people around here and that goes a long way. They think I'm his long lost nephew."

Mulder snorted. "What a family. I bet you'd put the Corleones to shame."

"You could as me for a favor and make your own comparison test." Then Krycek smiled. It transformed his face, making him look younger and so...

Mulder looked away. Silence filled the room.

"The night's over, Mulder." Krycek's voice was soft as a sigh. "You better wash your face, get dressed."

When he turned back, Krycek was picking up some of their clothes, strewn across the thick carpet. Mulder got up and headed for the bathroom. At the door, he looked back. Krycek was standing by the bed, holding his shirt. They looked at each other from across the room. "It was...good," said Mulder, reluctantly. It was more than he wanted to admit, and much less than the truth.

He watched Krycek's lips tighten for a moment, the emotions flickering across his face, holding in his unguarded green eyes. "Yeah. Yeah, it was."

Mulder nodded once at the acknowledgement and went into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. When he came out, his clothes were neatly laid out on the bed and he was alone. He dressed and walked out into the hallway. Curious, he headed for the rooms at the far end. He stopped as he passed a closed door. Running water, a bathroom. He tried to open the door but it was locked. Krycek was in there taking a shower. Mulder tried to picture him without his prosthetic arm. He wondered if Krycek would ever let him see. He frowned at his own thought. It didn't matter. He might not ever see Krycek again in any case. It didn't matter, he told himself again. He knew he had to leave. Turning, he hurried downstairs.

He was almost at the front door when he saw it, a crumpled piece of black satin on the polished hardwood floor. Slowly, he picked it up, stared at it. He was running again. Just like last time, like a rat trying to find escape from his own personal Krycek Maze. Running in circles. Running away.

Mulder knew he had failings, plenty of them, but he never thought of himself as a coward. There were too many questions. He wasn't sure he wanted all the answers, but this time he wasn't just going to run. Carefully, he tucked Krycek's bowtie into the pocket of his leather jacket.

**********

Krycek finished adjusting his prosthesis and dressed in the fresh clothes he had brought into the bathroom. He drew his fingers through his damp hair and tugged the charcoal gray sweatshirt over his jeans. Even after his shower, he could still smell Mulder's scent. It was in his nostrils and sunk down deep into his skin. He'd never forget it. Just like he'd never forget the softness of Mulder's brown hair against his cheek or the sound of his snuffling breath as he slept or the warmth of his body against him. Or, worst of all, the feeling of being held as if Mulder really needed him. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing away the images.

It didn't matter, he told himself. Mulder was gone.

He unlocked the door and walked towards the stairs, stopping at the door to his bedroom. As he expected, the room was empty.

It didn't matter.

He had things to do. He had to get to Senator Matheson to begin setting that piece into place, and he still had to deal with the Syndicate bastards and whatever plans they were weaving with the Colonists. He couldn't let anything stand in the way of what he had to do, not even Mulder. It was better this way. He would never have what he wanted for himself anyway. Not ever. He would always be alone. That was the consequence of his choices and he knew it.

He had his promises to keep. They had formed his life and he would see them through to the end. Whatever the cost.

He went downstairs and into the kitchen, and froze as he caught sight of Mulder, back turned to him, staring at the stained glass irises.

"Wh-what are you still doing here?"

Mulder looked over his shoulder at him, frowning. Then he turned slowly and faced him. "We had unprotected sex."

Mulder wore an expression that made him look like he was thinking about something else. Krycek stared, his eyes widening. "You never cease to amaze me," he replied after he realized that Mulder wasn't going to say anything more. "All right. Mulder. Unless all the information, all the surveillance, all the monitoring on you has been wrong all these years, then you are just about the safest man on Earth. As for me, well, you don't have to worry. I'm clean. See, unfortunately, my social life has been almost as lousy as yours. Worse yet, I don't even have your video collection. Now, if that's all you wanted to know." He stepped aside and waved his arm towards the front door.

Mulder was shaking his head. "Last night and the night of the storm. We have a problem, Krycek."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Mulder's eyes lowered and he sighed. "If I was to walk over to you right now and kiss you on the mouth, we wouldn't be able to stop. That's what I'm talking about. Fate threw me a hell of a curve ball when you darkened my life, Krycek." He looked up. "I don't understand it. I don't want it. But I can't make it go away."

"Just leave, Mulder. Just walk out the door and never look back. End of problem."

"No, that doesn't end it. It's not going away. I'll just take it with me, like I have for the past few weeks. Like I have for--" Mulder stopped, lips clamping into a tight, hard line. He drew a breath and spoke again. "And it's not just my problem, is it? You feel it, too, don't you?"

//Lie to him. Go on, tell him you don't give a damn. It means nothing to you. He means nothing to you. Nothing. Go on, tell him, you fool.// But Krycek couldn't seem to make his voice work. He couldn't say a word.

Mulder took a few steps towards him, and he started backing away. Mulder stopped. "We're going to make an arrangement."

Krycek found his breath. "What?"

"How long are you going to be here?" Mulder's eyes swept the room, his hand gesturing at the house around them with a wave.

Krycek swallowed. //No. Don't tell him. Don't let it go any further. You have to stay away from him. You have to end it.// "I--I don't know."

"I'll be back next Friday night."

"I don't know if I'll be here."

"Then leave me a message. Like you did last night."

//Don't do this. Don't set yourself up. You can't afford the price.// "All right."

Mulder nodded once. "Friday night then." He started walking towards him again. Krycek stumbled back another step as Mulder passed him, but Mulder was looking straight ahead, his expression as troubled as Krycek's.

A few moments later, Krycek heard the front door open and slam shut. Slowly, he walked back into the kitchen and stopped just where Mulder had been standing, in front of the windows. He looked up at the irises, the sunlight filtering through the colored glass in a swirl of blues and greens. He could see the memories surging up again, and in the midst, a pair of unforgettable hazel eyes. He suddenly felt as if he had willingly taken the first step towards his own downfall. All his careful emotional shields were crumbling down around him. He wrapped his arm across his stomach, drew in a succession of unsteady breaths.

He didn't know if he was going to laugh or cry. The hardest part of it all was realizing that he wouldn't be able to control himself, either way.

**********

Mulder slumped down into his leather couch and stared at nothing. He wondered if he'd made a seriously bad mistake, just as he had been wondering for the entire ride from Arlington to his apartment. Had he finally crossed the Rubicon? An "arrangement," for godssakes. What in the hell had he just arranged? A way of finding the key to the bewildering obsession that drew him to Alex Krycek, a man he had every right, every obligation, to hate? Or had he just set up a neat little schedule for getting laid on a regular basis? A fuck a week, guaranteed. More or less. Or maybe all he was really after was a good night's sleep. Nothing more restful than cuddling up to a cold-blooded killer. Yeah, it all made perfect sense. If you had holes in your head.

Mulder rubbed his hands over his face. He wanted to know what made Krycek tick. He wanted to know the man's secrets. And he wanted to fuck him. Maybe then, it would be over. He could let go of all the conflicting feelings that were tying him in knots. He could finish it and go on with his life.

Krycek's satin bowtie lay on the coffee table. Maybe he'd have it framed one day, or bronzed like a trophy. Mulder shook his head. There was work to do. He had the Ridley papers. Perhaps they would give him the answers to some very different questions, answers he'd been searching for long before Alex Krycek came into his life. His attaché case containing a copy of the papers was on the desk.

He stood up and went over to the phone. Then he dialed Scully's number. Belatedly, he glanced at his watch. It was a little after ten. His stomach growled, reminding him he hadn't had breakfast.

The phone rang twice. "Scully."

"Hi Scully, it's me. Got a minute to talk?"

"Yes, of course. What is it, Mulder? Don't tell me you're in the morgue again."

Mulder smiled. "Not quite. I'm in my apartment. Uh, I know you don't want to talk shop, but I have some information that I need to show you."

"Does this have to do with what you mentioned when you called me yesterday?"

"Yeah. I know I said it could wait until you were back at work, but I really want you to take a look at it right away. In fact, I should have told you about it weeks ago.

"Weeks ago?"

"I can explain when I see you. Okay?"

"Mulder, are you in any trouble over this, whatever it is?"

"Depends on what you mean by trouble." He winced. "No, Scully, I'm not in trouble. I think it's something that can help me find the truth about a lot of things. Can I come over?"

There was a pause, as if Scully could sense the mixture of emotions in his voice and wasn't quite sure what to make of it. "All right, Mulder. I'll be waiting."

"Thanks, Scully." He hung up and let out a long breath. Scully would help him with the Ridley papers. He was sure of that. At the moment, it was the only thing he was sure of.

Mulder pulled on his leather jacket and headed for his desk. As he passed the coffee table, he stopped and picked up the bowtie. He opened a drawer of his desk and paused again. Slowly, he brought the strip of black satin to his lips, held it there for a moment, and then placed it gently inside the drawer.

With a strange, new sense of anticipation, he grabbed the attaché off the desk and walked out the door.

-END-

 

* * *

 

Author: Courtney Gray  
Title: Double Play  
Pairings: M/K  
Rating: NC-17  
Status: Complete  
Series: How to Throw A Curve Ball #4  
Spoilers: Set sometime after TRatB and before The End  
Summary: Mulder and Krycek grow closer to one another and to the Truth.  
Webpage: http://www.mindspring.com/~seagray/fanfic.htm  
Feedback: 

* * *

Double Play  
by Courtney Gray  
(Part 4 in the "How to Throw a Curve Ball" series)

=========================

Krycek raised his gun slowly and readjusted his stance. He paused a moment, feeling the weight of the Glock in his hand. His thumb gently stroked the smooth metal before he squeezed the trigger. With a soft pop, a small, ragged hole appeared in the bright red center of the bullseye, some distance away. He pulled the trigger again and again until his clip was empty and a cluster of holes peppered the center of the target. He released the clip, put in a full one, and removed the silencer. Then he pressed a button on the console in front of him, raising a new target screen, this one the silhouette of a man. He started firing again. The staccato sound echoed through the firing range. When he stopped, he eyed the tight pattern of holes in the chest and head of the dark silhouette. The scent of cordite drifted in the air.

A heavy door opened behind him and one of the First Elder's 'assistants' poked his head inside. "Hey, Krycek, they want you to come up and join the meeting now." The man paused, glancing at the target at the far end of the range. His eyes widened just enough to bring a cold, satisfied smile to Krycek's lips.

"About time," he whispered. He reloaded and secured his weapon, put on his jacket, and followed the other man to the elevator.

**********

Mulder watched the blond man's face as the long, thick cock pushed slowly into his asshole. He assumed the grimace and groan of pain was faked since it turned immediately into an ecstatic sigh. He didn't have a chance to check since the camera was now focused elsewhere. Even if he wasn't familiar with the gay variety, Mulder knew that porn flicks were not renowned for their facial angles.

The other guy's cock was huge. //His buddies probably call him 'Redwood'.// Mulder glanced down at his own penis in all its bored and flaccid glory. While he didn't have anything to be ashamed of in the size department, it didn't hold a Roman candle to the guy in the video. The guy also had more body hair than the average gorilla. It made his bushy moustache seem excessive. Mulder kept watching, more curious about the mechanics than anything else. He raised his remote and stopped the video. Grabbing another box off the short stack on the coffee table, he got up and ejected the tape, popping in another.

A few minutes later, he popped that one out and tried yet another. He started fast-forwarding, then jammed his finger on the play button. He stared at the handsome young man sinking down to his knees to reverently kiss a very erect cock. The guy had dark hair, pale skin, a hairless chest, build about the same...And two nicely muscled arms. Mulder squinted, imagining a different kind of left arm. His cock began to get hard.

*****

It was snowing very lightly. The flakes were almost transparent against the deep night sky. Krycek's breath misted in the winter air. He turned up the collar of his long wool coat and burrowed his gloved hand into his pocket. His boots crunched against a bit of loose gravel along the path. The shadows were thick around him as he headed into the multi-storied garage. He knew someone was following him. Had been for several blocks.

He should've parked closer. He hadn't thought the meeting would take so much time, or that he'd spend most of it waiting. //Fucking old pricks.// And now...what?

He made his way up the second set of stairs, the hairs on the back of his neck tingling. He stopped and listened. He sensed more than heard it: a movement on the landing below. He peered down over the metal railing. The lighting was poor, the walls grimy dark. Most people took the elevator, even during the day. The shadows below seemed to flicker for a moment. He gritted his teeth and drew out his gun. He continued to walk up the few steps to the steel-gray door to the third floor. It opened with a short squeal of a rusty joint. He paused and went through. He watched until it clanged shut behind him, then hurried to slip behind a van parked nearby.

A few moments later, the door opened again and Krycek watched through a corner of the van's tinted windows as a man emerged. He seemed to hesitate, looking one way and then the other. Krycek crept silently around the back of the van as the man started walking slowly away from him, towards a row of cars.

Seconds later, Krycek had the man down flat on the concrete, his knee pressing hard against the base of the man's spine and the barrel of the Glock jamming into the base of his scull. "Looking for me?" he asked.

A grunt answered him as the man tried to shift slightly. "Yes, Mr. Krycek, I am." He moved his head the fraction that Krycek allowed. "Your gun can't kill me. Please let me up. I only want to talk to you. It's very important."

Krycek's eyes narrowed as he stared at the back of the man's neck. He stood up quickly and took a step back. "Get up." He watched the man carefully as he rose and turned to face him.

The man looked vaguely familiar. Krycek searched his memory. No, he'd never met him. Then he remembered the face from one of the old Brit's files that recounted the Smoker's dealings with this man. This...alien.

"My name is Jeremiah Smith," the Alien told him.

*****

Mulder wiped the semen off his groin and belly with a kitchen towel and tossed it on the floor. The video was still going and so were the five guys tangled in an orgy of bumping and grinding bodies. Last time he looked, there'd only been two. He couldn't even find the Krycek lookalike in the sea of sucking and fucking flesh. He turned off the tape and sank back into the couch. He threw his head back against the cool black leather and wondered how sex had become such a thorny problem in his life. //One stormy night.//Before then it had been, at worst, a non-problem. Perhaps, at best, a hoped-for problem. Ah, be careful what you wish for. Cliches were so...annoyingly true. He sighed and closed his eyes.

Scully wasn't too happy with him, not that 'happy' was exactly the right word. She was pissed at him over the Ridley papers. She had agreed to help, but she was pissed. If she knew that Krycek was involved, pissed would be the most he could hope for. As it was, she was reviewing Ridley's notes and, fortunately, she was intrigued by them. With some luck, a good deal of luck, Scully might find something in the papers that would tie in with the missing biotech specialists and the sixth man mentioned in Ridley's journals. It was all they had left now, since the Gunmen's last trace on the sixth man seemed to have evaporated on the Island of Mindanao.

In the meantime, the X-files were still out there. Mulder thought back to the expression on Scully's face when he had told her that he wanted to finish their current investigation and be back before Friday. He'd already pegged the case as a badly disguised homicide anyway. Scully's delicate auburn eyebrows had risen to her hairline. "What's the matter, Mulder, do you have a hot date waiting for you?"

For once, his snappy repartee had failed him and he'd stared at her with his mouth open.

"You really *do* have a date, Mulder?" she had asked, blue eyes widening.

"No. I, uh, was thinking of reviewing that background search that the Gunmen are running on those scientists." And, as he'd said it, he realized that was what he should've been doing. Instead, he was thinking about something quite different.

Tomorrow would be the first Friday of the "arrangement." Such a masterful plan. Or so it seemed the last time he stood in front of Alex Krycek. Hell, it even seemed logical to him at the time. Now, it seemed only self-indulgent and maybe even dangerously reckless.

So, naturally, Mulder had ever intention of going through with it.

********

Krycek checked the security system and went into the living room. After 30 seconds of consideration, he walked over to the liquor cabinet and surveyed the small array of fancy labels and decanters. The vodka wasn't cold. He grabbed a crystal tumbler and poured himself a shot of Laphroaig instead. He took a quick swallow, grimacing as the smoky whisky hit the back of his throat. He didn't usually go for the hard stuff. Too dulling. After meeting with Jeremiah Smith, though, he needed it.

Tossing his coat on one of the wingchairs, he stretched out on the suede-covered sofa, the Scotch cradled against his chest, and wondered how much longer Smith would stay alive.

It had been mildly reassuring to learn that he was not Smith's first choice of contact. He wasn't even the second. He just wished he hadn't been the third.

Now, he had to decide whether he believed Smith and, if he did, should he give the information to Mulder.

He had the feeling that Mulder would swallow Smith's story whole. Then he'd start running in ten different directions to try and act on it, and probably draw some very unfriendly attention in the process. Maybe it was just as well that Smith felt contacting Mulder directly again would be too dangerous, more for Mulder than himself.

Smith knew that Krycek had access to the Syndicate's top circle now. He also knew that Krycek was helping the Rebels. How he knew, he wouldn't say. That made Krycek very nervous. The rest of what Smith told him troubled him even more.

The aliens were dying. At least, that's what Jeremiah Smith told him. The primary aim of the hybridization project was not to enslave humankind, but to find a way of stopping an insidious malignancy that had begun slowly spreading throughout the alien population almost since their arrival. The disease was gaining momentum and the only viable option left for survival was hybridization. Of course, if it meant obliterating the human race in the process, so be it.

Well, that would explain the frenzy of activity over the past few years, why the Syndicate had been directed to cover up vastly different lines of experimentation taking place simultaneously. It was as if the aliens were trying everything and anything, and pushing their human collaborators to do the same. The horrible mutations, the careless cruelty. The aliens didn't have the luxury or inclination to be careful. They no longer had the time.

"The hybridization project has to be stopped, Mr. Krycek. We have been here a very long time. We did not evolve. We absorbed. Destroyed. We turned ourselves into monsters. And now, our own DNA is killing us." Smith had looked at him then, with a steady, probing gaze that disturbed him. "You understand the need to survive. That need is driving them--the Colonists and the Rebels. It doesn't matter which of them wins, you see. That desperate need to survive has even driven us against each other. They fight for the right to own you. The Rebels will realize they cannot escape our disease, no matter how they try to mutilate themselves to guard against it. None of us can return home. You must realize that, in the end, the result would be the same whether the Colonists or the Rebels win: humanity will lose."

Smith had drawn in a breath, his features stamped with weariness. "There were a few of us who wanted the killing to stop, for our existence here to be different. Most have been discovered and eliminated. I've been running a long time, Mr. Krycek. I'm tired. They think I'm dead. I will be, soon. The Englishman, I wanted to tell him, warn him. He's not like the rest of them but they suspect him already. He must be very careful now. I fear he has little time left."

Krycek had felt a knot of fear tighten in his belly at the Alien's words. "So what do you expect from me?" he had asked.

"The hybridization experiments may be very close to succeeding. I have no means to stop them. I do not even know where they are taking place. But if they succeed, it will be the end of your race, Mr. Krycek. Those men in your Syndicate, they're fools. They will not be spared. I have discovered one last piece of information that the few of us who remain have been able to confirm. It has cost us dearly. It's the only thing left that I can give. It must be used to end this madness." Smith drew in a breath. "I have learned that a human scientist has discovered a means of accelerating our disease. Find him and you will have what you need to save your world."

Krycek looked at the Alien suspiciously. "You want the Colonists to die? You want to die?"

Smith gazed back at him with the ghost of a smile. "There are worse things than death. I've always wanted to be a Healer. For a long time, I did nothing but what I was told. I was too afraid to do anything. The first time I...helped one of your people, I finally felt alive. Since then I've wanted the torture and destruction to stop. My own life is of no consequence otherwise."

"Do you know the name of this scientist?"

"Yes. His name is Ridley, Joseph Ridley."

Krycek studied Smith's face for a long moment. "Joseph Ridley is dead. He died a few years ago."

Smith's surprise seemed genuine. His brows drew together in a deep frown and he lowered his head. When he looked up again, the lines had deepened across his forehead. "Then, you knew about him? Did the Colonists find him?"

Krycek recalled what the Brit had told him and what he'd read himself in Ridley's papers. "No. He used himself as a guinea pig for one of his experiments. He died from it. But his work had nothing to do with the Project. He had no knowledge of your existence. His research papers had been stolen by one of his patients, who's also dead."

Smith pinned Krycek with his stare. "Is your Syndicate looking for his data?"

Krycek nodded reluctantly.

"The answer is there, in Ridley's research data. You must find it before they do or all your people will die..."

The soft chimes of the grandfather clock brought Krycek out of his reverie and he took one last swallow of his drink before setting it aside. He had a long night ahead of him and a lot of thinking to do.

**********

Mulder glanced at the food displays as he walked down the aisle. He grabbed a couple of boxes of Stouffer's Macaroni and Cheese but grimaced at the frozen pizza. A few cans of Campbell's soup, a couple of bags of sunflower seeds, a quart of orange juice, and a four-roll pack of toilet paper later, he found himself staring at the lubricants in the Personal Hygiene section. He used hand lotion to jackoff. With aloe, of course. He still had plenty at home. //So you don't need any of this, now do you?// He plucked a tube of KY from the shelf and threw it into his shopping basket. As he started to turn, he grabbed a gold box of Trojans, too. He had a few rubbers in the apartment but they had probably expired during Clinton's first term. //It was always prudent to keep a fresh supply.//

His state of denial lasted until he reached the checkout counter. That's when he quit kidding himself and thought about fucking Alex Krycek. No. He realized, with a disturbing start, that fucking Krycek was his second thought. The first image that had entered his mind was of kissing Alex Krycek. Along with the clear memory of how well their lips fit together. For some reason, this thought bothered him a lot more than the fucking.

As he dumped his bag of groceries in the passenger seat and got in the car, he reached in and tore open one of the bags of sunflower seeds. He crunched on a few and spit the shells into his hand. He looked through the windshield and realized it was snowing. It was light, the flakes dusting the hood of his car and melting away. Snowflakes were very cold. Krycek's body was very warm. With this non sequitur firmly in mind, he started the engine and headed home.

He'd left work on time.

"Are Frohike and the others expecting you to go over there already?" Scully had asked him with a curious frown, her head tilted in that way she had.

"I need to pick up some things from the store first." Lame, but true.

As he was getting into his coat, she had asked him again to consider turning over the Ridley material to Skinner. "We need the Bureau's resources on this, Mulder."

"I know he'd try, but Skinner wouldn't be able to keep it in the Bureau. The NSA was willing to give John Barnett, a psychopathic murderer, anything he wanted in exchange for the location of Ridley's research papers. I don't think they'd be any less interested in getting their hands on it now. We'd lose it all, Scully."

His partner had given him a familiar look that was part frustration and part resignation. "Okay, Mulder, but if we hit nothing but deadends, if we need help--"

"We'll deal with it then. C'mon, Scully, just give me a little more time."

And he needed more time with Krycek. Just before a wave of guilt could hit him, Mulder reminded himself that Krycek was the one who had given him the Ridley papers. He was a player in the Syndicate. He had access to those shadow men, perhaps to the Colonists, the Rebels. All of it. It would be stupid to give up a source like that.

So, here he was driving along with his tube of lube and a box of condoms. Oh, yeah, he had his priorities, all right. He fingers clutched the steering wheel in a bruising grip. Okay. Maybe he couldn't ignore the obsessive attraction that had built between them, but maybe he could put it to use. He just had to stay in control. Keep his emotions in check. If he handled it right, he could get a lot more out of Krycek than a good fuck.

*******

Krycek pushed the food around his plate one more time before giving up. He walked over to the window and stood looking out at the winter-stripped garden, at the tiny flakes of snow falling against the darkness.

He still wasn't sure what he would do with or about the information that Jeremiah Smith had given him.

According to the old Brit's files, Smith was just one of the many low level workers assigned to catalog the humans for the Project, a drone gone bad. Or insane. Smith shouldn't have had any way of accessing the kind of information he seemed to possess, just as he shouldn't have had the extraordinary healing powers he had somehow attained.

"Can you give me back my arm?" Krycek had asked him pointblank at the end of their strange meeting, throwing out the question like a challenge.

Smith had answered him with a penetrating look that had slowly changed into something gentler. His eyes looked almost warm. He seemed unnervingly human. "I do not know. I can try." Slowly, he stepped closer, his arm lifting, his fingers brushing Krycek's left shoulder, touching the exact place where his arm ended and the prosthetic began. The contact felt like a tiny electrical shock.

And Krycek had instinctively jumped back. He didn't want to be at the mercy of another Alien. He'd lost himself once before. Lost all control. He wasn't ready to risk that again. Not even if Smith could really do it. So, he had just shaken his head 'no.'

Krycek quickly shoved the disquieting memory aside.

The Colonists considered Jeremiah Smith a rogue and a traitor. As far as Krycek was concerned, it was the most compelling point in Smith's favor. It was certainly something he could relate to. But was that enough to gamble on? If what Smith had told him about the aliens and Ridley was legitimate, it would change the entire game.

That is, if what Jeremiah Smith had told him was true. Ironically, the truth was of dubious value to Krycek. In his experience, the nature of truth seemed to depend on whoever was defining it. He didn't really believe in objective truth and, unlike Mulder, he understood that knowing too much was usually far worse than knowing nothing at all.

Nevertheless, there was one fact he couldn't ignore: Mulder had the Ridley papers. And, if they contained the key to destroying the Alien threat, then he couldn't afford not to tell him.

Damn Mulder. Stalker of his thoughts. Stalker of his dreams. In the week since he'd seen him, Krycek had had to come to grips with his one deadly weakness. There was, after all, only so much denial he could afford, and he'd already gone well over his quota where Fox Mulder was concerned.

It was wiser, safer, for him not to be anywhere near Mulder. Distance helped. At least if Mulder was out of sight, if not out of mind, that allowed him to go about his business, to focus on his objectives. To push his own need into the background.

Need. It was a costly admission for Krycek. He'd spent years making himself into someone who would never need anyone. He'd taught himself to bury every soft feeling that might get in his way. Until the old Brit's schemes had interfered with his own plans. Until the night of that fateful storm when Mulder had forced him to remember what it meant to care too much.

Krycek gathered the remainder of his meal and dumped it down the garbage disposal. He went into the living room and stood by the mantle, staring down into the empty fireplace. He knew Mulder was going to show. He'd be here, tonight, to keep his insane arrangement. After all, Mulder couldn't let it go. He was as drawn to Krycek as Krycek was to him, but Krycek had no illusions. Mulder hated him. They desired each other and Mulder hated him for it. Krycek was Mulder's unfortunate obsession, an aberrant attraction that had to be confronted and dealt with and, finally, overcome. Mulder needed to exorcise Alex Krycek from his life.

Unfortunately for Krycek, Mulder was something altogether different. Mulder made him want a future he couldn't have and regret a past he couldn't change. Yet, even though he couldn't understand it, he knew, knew deep down, that he would take whatever Mulder would give him. It was pathetic, and he knew that, too.

He gripped the edge of the mantle with his fingers, his eyes moving to settle on his left hand, hanging limp at his side. In the muted light of the room, it looked real. It almost looked warm, not like the cold, dead thing that it was.

"We make our own fate, Alex." His father had said those prophetic words to him when he was only a boy. Krycek closed his eyes and felt the old sorrow touch him, mingling with the new.

*******

Mulder listened to the soft whoosh of the wiper blades and wondered if he'd left his oven on. So much for eidetic memory. It only worked if you were paying attention, and his attention hadn't been on his dinner or the oven temperature, which he hadn't bothered setting to anything in particular, which was why his macaroni and cheese had emerged looking like wheat toast.

Without bothering to check the street signs, he turned left into yet another tree-lined street in Arlington. When it came to the route to this particular house, his memory was unfailingly precise. He let out a sigh as the wipers cleared away another flurry of whispery snowflakes.

Maybe Krycek wouldn't be there. Or maybe Krycek was planning a trap and Mulder'd walk into that house and into a setup worthy of a lamb begging for slaughter. No. Mulder's instincts told him he wasn't the only one with unfinished business. Straightening in his seas, he applied a little more pressure to the peddle.

He parked on the street nearby and got out slowly. Tree branches cast twisted silhouettes on the sidewalk through the hazy amber light of a street lamp. Mulder looked at the house. Soft light shone through the curtained living room window, but the rest of the place looked dark. No black Mercedes in the driveway. He glanced at the neighboring houses, at the other cars parked along the street. Everything seemed quiet. The meager snowfall had stopped. He patted the sides of his jacket. Sig Sauer in one pocket, condoms and KY in the other. //Could any Boy Scout be better prepared?// He gazed around again and started towards the house, pausing halfway up the path to the door. He turned around and walked back a few steps towards his car. Stopped again. Turned again. Mind and body churning, he stood for another minute before clenching his fists and marching resolutely to the door. His finger was paused an inch away from the bell when he heard the click of a lock and watched as the doorknob turned and the door opened.

Alex Krycek stood in the darkened doorway, backlit by the faint light cast from the living room. Their eyes met and Krycek took a step back in silent invitation. Mulder wondered if Krycek had been watching for him. A kind of crackling, electric tension seemed to surround the man. Mulder stepped inside, the door shutting firmly behind him. Suddenly, he was pushed against it, Krycek's warm, warm mouth covering his. Krycek was making throaty, breathy little sounds. Their bodies pressed tight.

Mulder was hard in moments, shocked by the sensations that swamped him, excited by the kiss, even more by Krycek's helpless urgency. They pulled at each other's clothes. Buttons snapped off Krycek's shirt. Mulder's jacket hit the floor. Zippers hissed open. Mulder sucked at Krycek's throat, bit the tender flesh between neck and shoulder as Krycek moaned into his ear. Their cocks bumped, rubbed, slid against each other. Hands caressed and clawed over muscle and flesh. Mulder's fingers brushed over Krycek's fake arm, strangely cold and unyielding even through the thick wool of his shirtsleeve. They held each other close, mouths and bodies moving and melding rhythmically, again and again.

Mulder came with a sharp cry, his mouth still molded against Krycek's as orgasm jolted through his body. Then he felt Krycek spasm against him, heard his deep, throaty groan as climax took him as well. They clung to each other like two lost souls, trembling in a storm. They were sagging against the door, Mulder pressed against the frame, Krycek draped over him.

When Mulder finally felt his sanity return, awkwardness returned with it. Krycek's face nestled against his neck, hot breath fanning his cooling skin. The faint smell of expensive aftershave mingled with the scent of their semen and sweat. Mulder realized that he wasn't wearing his sweatshirt, glanced to the side to see it lying on top of his jacket on the floor. Krycek was still wearing his dark blue shirt, but it was half off his shoulders and his chest was bare. He knew because he could feel his hot flesh plastered against him. Mulder could almost hear the other man's heart beating in time with his own.

The warm puffs of breath slowed against his throat and he felt Krycek's body tense and stiffen, as he began to pull away. Mulder reached out and placed a hand on either side of the other man's face, held on until Krycek met his eyes. "You were waiting for me." He couldn't disguise the note of triumph in his voice.

Krycek broke his hold and stepped away, shrugging the shirt back over his shoulders, quickly zipping his black jeans. Most of the buttons were torn from his shirt and it hung open. His nipples were a dusky rose against his pale smooth skin. Smooth as a boy's. "You didn't have to come here," he answered, the tiniest tremor in his smoky voice. He turned and moved towards the stairs.

Mulder watched him walk up the steps and fade into the shadows before he bowed his head and tried to recall what in the hell he had hoped to accomplish tonight. Stay in control? He was off to a great start. His pants were bunched halfway down his thighs and drying semen smeared his exposed cock and balls and pubic hair. Half of it was Krycek's. He gazed up into the dark at the top of the stairs and began to pull his clothes together. He picked up his jacket, tapped the pockets. He left his sweatshirt on the floor and headed up the stairs, flipping on the lightswitch as he went.

Good quality construction, he thought absently, eyes scanning walls and ceiling as he made his way down the hall to Krycek's bedroom. Strong, solid walls. Top of the line insulation, he figured. Next door neighbors probably wouldn't even hear a gun going off in here. As he paused in the doorway, he could make out Krycek's silhouette in the dimness near the foot of the bed, leaning against one of the tall four posters. He moved towards a lamp and turned it on.

Krycek's right arm was wrapped loosely around one of the carved posts, his head angled against it. He didn't seem to be looking at anything in particular. The unguarded expression on his face made Mulder swallow back an unwanted mix of emotions. He waited until Krycek turned his head slightly and stared at him.

"So, ready for round two?" Krycek asked him, but the words sounded hollow. It was the wounded look in his eyes that bothered Mulder the most. It seemed too genuine.

"I might need a minute. That was quite a welcome." Krycek flinched slightly and Mulder drew in a long breath. "Actually, I think a little post-coital exchange of intimacies would be in order right about now. You know, like how about sharing your deepest feelings about government conspiracies and international cover-ups with me."

Krycek lips pursed for a moment, then he gave Mulder a tight little smile. "I never kiss and tell."

Mulder let himself return the smile, grateful to be back on more familiar ground. He hadn't really expected Krycek to reveal anything about anything. He just felt obliged to make an effort, however minimal, to see if Krycek might. On one level, it salved his conscience and reminded him of who he was dealing with. And it made the haunted look in Krycek's eyes easier to ignore. Especially since, at the moment, all he seemed to want to do was put his arms around the man and hold on tight.

"You know, Mulder, sometimes it's easy to believe in destiny."

Mulder's mind flashbacked to a night when he had contemplated that very subject at length while he sat on his living room floor, in the dark, his gun dangling from his hand. "Sometimes it's the only answer that makes any sense."

Krycek nodded slowly, eyes lowering. He sat down heavily on the edge of the bed. Mulder tossed his leather jacket on a chair and walked over to stand in front of him, staring down at the dark cap of hair. If there was such a thing as destiny, then it had to be the product of a very twisted sense of humor. That was the only way to explain whatever it was that made Mulder lift his hand and gently stroke the silky hair. Made his fingers caress the smooth, soft skin of Krycek's temple, his cheek. Made his thumb trace lightly along the edge of his mouth before moving back to rake through the short dark hair at the nape of his neck. Krycek's arm began to slide hesitantly around his waist, pulling him forward to stand between his legs. A moment later, Mulder felt the warm lips touch his bare chest, and then Krycek's check rubbed shyly against his skin.

Mulder's eyes drifted shut. It felt so...good. He tried to listen to the voice whispering in the back of his mind, //don't give in to it, keep the distance, use your head//. The whisper faded as his arms tightened around Krycek's shoulders and he felt himself falling slowly forward, falling with Krycek onto the bed. They started to kiss, slow measured kisses as they slid further up on the bed's silk coverlet.

Mulder rose to his knees and reached out to pull off Krycek's shoes. He tossed them on the floor along with his own, and started to take off his jeans.

An instant later, Krycek began to scream, a pain-filled, guttural cry that spun Mulder back to look at him, eyes rounding in stunned surprise. Krycek was clutching at his arm, his fake arm, pitching back and forth against the pillows. Not sure what was happening, Mulder reached out, trying to hold Krycek steady.

"What's wrong? What's happening!?"

The green eyes squeezed shut, Krycek's face a grimace as he cried out again. "My...arm...fire," he choked out, bucking against Mulder's grip, throwing him off. Mulder scrambled back. Krycek was clawing at his shirtsleeve, at the spot where the prosthesis joined his flesh. It seemed as if he was fighting himself along with Mulder. Mulder managed to wrestle him into a sitting position, as Krycek kept tearing at his sleeve, his breathing labored, his teeth gritted in agony.

Mulder stripped off Krycek's heavy wool shirt and watched as the other man struggled with the thin straps of his fake arm. Krycek screamed again, falling back on the mattress, body rolling back and forth.

Krycek seemed unaware of him, the pain blinding him. He tore at his arm, pulling the prosthesis off. Only then did he seem to calm a little, gulping air, eyes closing. The tension that had gripped his body seemed to ease.

Mulder's mouth gaped open. It wasn't the sight of the amputated arm that shocked him. It was the blood. Little drops, like beads coated the stump of Krycek's arm. Mulder crouched nearer. The blood, and it truly looked like blood, didn't appear to be coming from any new cut or visible injury. The scar tissue seemed well formed, thick and solid. It was as if the area was perspiring blood, the droplets simply appearing out of the scar tissue.

Mulder glanced at Krycek's face. His eyes were still closed, the pain lines fading from his brow. His breathing was still rapid and he was trembling. Mulder looked back at the arm. "You're bleeding." When Krycek didn't respond, he said it again, louder.

Krycek opened his eyes and looked blankly at Mulder.

"Your arm."

The green eyes followed Mulder's gaze and slowly widened in horror. He struggled to sit up, right arm flailing.

"Easy, don't move. I'm going to get something to wipe away the blood." He pressed his hand against Krycek's bare chest, forcing him back down into the pillows. He could almost feel the other man's heart pounding against his palm. Krycek just stared silently, unblinkingly, at the tiny, red droplets on his truncated arm, his face pale as ivory.

Mulder quickly retrieved a towel from the bathroom. He dabbed gently at the scar tissue. "Has this ever happened before?" he asked quietly. As he wiped away the blood, a few droplets reappeared. "Are you still in pain? Does it hurt?" He looked into Krycek's eyes when he didn't answer. "Has this happened before?" he repeated, intent now on getting some sort of response.

The word was barely audible. "No."

Mulder looked back at the arm. There were fewer drops reappearing. He wiped them away. "It doesn't look like there's any injury. The blood seems to be coming right from the scar tissue. What's happened to you, Krycek? Do you know?"

Krycek kept staring at his arm. The bleeding seemed to have stopped. "He barely touched me."

The words were so soft, Mulder had to strain to hear them." *He*? Who are you talking about?"

Krycek looked away, back down at his arm. The blood was gone. Mulder threw the stained towel aside and settled himself on the bed beside Krycek. Curiosity gripped him, along with that peculiar spark of anticipation that lit him up whenever he encountered a tantalizing unknown. "Someone did this to you? How?" He chewed at his lip as the silence grew. Krycek turned his face towards the ceiling. "Alex, please tell me."

The long, dark lashes lowered at the name, Krycek turning his head to lock gazes with him. For a moment, Mulder thought he saw a flash of anger, but then it was gone. A small, resigned smile flitted over Krycek's mouth and he let out a sigh. "Jeremiah Smith."

"What?!" Mulder's arm locked around Krycek's waist as he drew closer. "Jeremiah Smith? You know who he is? You saw Smith? When, why?"

Krycek looked dazedly back up at the ceiling. "He followed me. Last night."

"I thought they'd killed him." Mulder burrowed his face against the warm neck, his body half-covering Krycek's right side. His arm tightened possessively around Krycek's waist, He couldn't see the puzzled frown that grew over the other man's face. He didn't even realize that his cock was getting hard again. "Tell me, Alex, tell me."

*******

Krycek hadn't known it was possible to feel so many different emotions at the same time. The mind-numbing fear was the worst. What had Smith done to him? The blood on his arm. The pain, the horrible, excruciating pain. It was just like the knife, the searing hot blade that had cut away his arm. He'd never thought he'd feel that kind of pain again. Didn't think it was possible. What was happening to him? Was Smith trying to kill him? Or was he trying to give him back his arm?

He heard Mulder murmuring his name, moist lips pressed against his neck. It burned another feeling into him, gave him a very different kind of pain. Mulder was wrapped around him, holding him tight, his growing erection pressed against Krycek's side. Krycek was scared and angry with himself. He needed Mulder's touch, yearned desperately for the comfort of it.

"Alex."

The sound of his name felt like a fist squeezing his heart. The old Brit was right. Dangle the inexplicable in front of him, and Mulder was hooked like the sorriest junkie. Krycek had dreamed of being with Mulder like this, held close, as someone other than a hated enemy. And, now he was. Now, he was another one of Mulder's X-files.

He turned his head away, glanced at his arm. No more blood. The fear lifted a fraction, but the effect of Mulder's touch only sharpened. He fought to push the emotions away, but it was like being in a vortex, all his feelings, mixed and muddled, whirling and whirling through him, pulling him under.

God, he hadn't wanted Mulder to see his arm, the ugliness of it. He could barely stand to look at it himself. He wanted to cover himself. Wanted to hide it. Too late now. //Always too late.//But Mulder didn't seem to be bothered by it.

"Why did Smith contact you?" Mulder's voice whispered against his skin, lips softly nuzzling his neck. Krycek could hear the curious fascination in the question.

He hadn't intended to blurt it out like that. He tried to consider the consequences, weigh the liabilities one more time, but it was so hard to think. It was always so difficult when Mulder was this close. "Smith told me he was dying." He felt the shift of Mulder's body against his own, the rapt attention. "He said they're all dying, the Aliens. Some kind of gene mutation, causing a disease that's been spreading through their population ever since they arrived here. Over the last decade, it's been accelerating. The hybridization experiments are their last chance at survival." He swallowed hard as Mulder's excited breath touched a spot just below his ear. "I'm not sure I believe him." He had to say it though he doubted that it made any difference to Mulder.

Mulder propped himself up on an elbow, his other hand unconsciously stroking over Krycek's chest and shoulder. "Jeremiah Smith tried to help me. He put himself at grave risk because he wanted me to know what they were planning. He tried to show me--" He faltered, his eyes darkening with some memory. "He's different from the others. He's a healer. He has extraordinary power. You said he touched your arm?"

"I stopped him."

"Stopped him? Why?"

Krycek stared into the insatiably curious eyes and knew he would never be able to tell Mulder enough to satisfy him unless he stripped his own soul bare, and probably not even then. He felt raw and open. He'd exposed too much of himself already, in every conceivable way. Given too much to Mulder as it was. Besides, all the secrets in the world wouldn't give him what *he* truly wanted from Mulder. Wouldn't give him Mulder's lo-- . He stopped himself before his mind could conjure the word. "I told you I wasn't sure I believed Smith," he answered evasively.

Mulder studied him for a moment. "I don't think Jeremiah Smith would lie about that. What I don't understand is why he didn't try to contact me? Why did he want to talk to you?"

"You mean, why would he trust someone like me?" He could read the question in Mulder's eyes. It was hardly a surprise. "I don't know," he continued. "Smith didn't want to risk trying to meet with you again. He knows I'm in contact with the Rebels. Maybe he thought I had a better chance of making use of what he knew." He realized he might as well tell Mulder the rest. "He had something else he wanted to tell me. He said it was the last piece of information he could give us."

"What?" Mulder's arms closed around him again. His teeth raked across his full lower lip.

Krycek drew in a breath and repeated what Smith had told him about Ridley.

"Shit. It's there, in the data. We can beat them." Mulder pulled away and sat up. Krycek could almost see the wheels turning, sense the barely contained eagerness. "Did Smith tell you anything more? What is it we should be looking for in the papers?"

Krycek just shook his head. "He said he didn't know exactly what it is, only that it's something Ridley knew, that it must be in his research."

"But what could it be? A formula? A process connected with his Progeria research? A component of one of his failed experiments? Something to do with his cell grafting? A doodle in the margin?" Mulder stopped, wiped a hand over his mouth.

"Damn it. I've looked through that data a dozen times." A slow smile spread over Mulder's face. "It's like one of those trick drawings; do you see a vase or a double profile. The object's right there but until you know what you're looking for, you can't see it or you see something completely different. At least now, we know what we're looking for. And we know the clock is ticking for them as well as us."

"We?" asked Krycek softly.

The smile faded as Mulder turned towards him. "If the hybridization project succeeds before we can decipher the data, it'll be too late. We have to work both sides of this. We have to slow them down, give ourselves the time we might need to decipher the data. The Centers that you and the Old Man talked about, that's were they're doing the experiments, isn't that what you said?"

"Yes."

"We have to locate them, at least one of them to start. I'm going to--"

"You're not going to do anything, Mulder. You hear me?" Krycek's voice was a harsh whisper as he shifted in the bed. "I have a better chance of getting that information *my* way than you ever will. Leave it alone. You work on Ridley's data. That's why we gave it to you. The Old Man knew there was something valuable in there because the Colonists want it so badly. Now we know why. Don't jeopardize the advantage we have by running around, poking your nose into--"

"You're the one who told me to get my head out of the sand. Well, it's out. You can't expect me not to try and do everything I can to--"

"I expect you to use that fuckin' brilliant mind of yours. I can go where you can't. Do what you can't. Smith knew that. Even after everything you've seen, everything you've been through, you don't understand who you're dealing with, how deep and how high it goes. Well, I do. Leave this part of it to me."

"You expect me to trust you?" Mulder's words had that old icy edge, cutting through Krycek like shards of glass.

"No. I don't expect anything from you." Krycek cursed the tremor in his voice and started to roll away, to get out of the bed. The emotions were roiling through him again, anger, regret, fear, and that ever present, painful need. He gasped as Mulder grabbed him from behind and pulled him down. The silk coverlet bunched as they grappled, legs twisting together.

It was Mulder's mouth that finally stopped him. That cool, plush mouth descending over his, moving like a finely honed weapon over his lips, his tongue, marking him. Starting wildfires in his brain and his groin. A corner of his mind shuddered at his exposed arm and he flinched as Mulder's fingers caressed his neck and traveled down his left shoulder. Mulder held him fast, sensual mouth continuing its relentless assault. When the long fingers brushed over his ruined flesh, he froze.

Mulder's mouth grew gentle, then lifted just far enough to allow speech. "Am I hurting you?" he asked, with a softness that was so disturbing that Krycek had to move a little to look into the hazel eyes to see if it was real. It shook him to see that it was.

//Always,// thought Krycek in silent answer, but he wrapped his arm around Mulder's neck and brought their lips together again. //If only.// Those truly were the saddest words of all. He pushed the thought away, and let his senses wallow in the matchless pleasure of Mulder's body. The rest of their clothes were thrown aside and Krycek didn't tense again when he felt Mulder touch his arm. He just kept looking into his eyes.

They used their mouths on each other, and at the last, there was a kind of strange tenderness in their touches that almost matched their raw physical need. For Krycek, the world spun and burst into hot white light. When he blinked back into awareness, he was nestled in Mulder's arms. Raising his head from Mulder's shoulder, he gazed into the half-lidded eyes. For a moment, just a moment, he thought he saw his own absolute contentment, his soul-deep joy, mirrored in those golden eyes. It was a moment caught between dreams and reality, pure and precise and impossible to keep.

Abruptly, Mulder let him go and rolled away, too fast. He drew his long legs over the side of the bed and sat up, back towards Krycek. Then he hunched forward, his head in his hands. It made Krycek shiver as if from a sudden chill. He waited for Mulder to say something. He felt like pulling a corner of the bedspread and covering himself with it, but instead he just stared at the smooth lean torso, now taut with tension. The silence stretched uneasily. Finally, Mulder stood up and started walking towards the bathroom, hands still rubbing at his face.


End file.
